Flawed Perfection
by SeriousScribble
Summary: Set after Eldest. He tried to forget her, but found that he couldn't. - As Eragon struggles with his feelings and tries to understand Arya, he starts learning more about himself; all the while fighting to save Alagaësia. And there's still one last egg…
1. Parting

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot and my thoughts, the rest is all C.P.'s. No money is being made from my writings.

**About the story:**  
This story developed along with my fascination of Arya. I know that some see her as the picture-perfect Mary-Sue, but I really think that this isn't the case. Indeed, her perfection that is shown to us is, in my opinion, only the outside. We don't know what's going on inside her.

What is her drive? What pushed her to become that near-perfect fighter, which even with elfin abilities must have taken countless years of training? What was it, that made her go against the wishes of her mother and queen? What forces her to be always so completely in control, of the events and herself, more than any elf we've met?

I tried to answer these questions, and to give reasonable explanations of her character and her behaviour, and in the end, I decided to write a story about it – I let Eragon ask those very questions, after he realized that, in order to get closer to her, he had to understand her; and so we will be discovering, along with him, Arya's past bit by bit; and delve into the contradictory nature of her, that he will come to love.

And so, this is the tale of a love against all odds, a strange, imperfect love, so very un-elfin like, and ideal by no means... just as both of them are not perfect, but flawed. It is something, that by any logical reasons shouldn't have the right to exist; and yet it does, and their love may just prove to be strong enough to weather all storms.

That will be the main focus of the story, although it, obviously, will have a real plot – after all, Alagaësia doesn't wait for Eragon to understand Arya, there is an evil tyrant, who couldn't care less about that.

Eragon has many promises to fulfil – Elva, Katrina, the return to the elves… all that will be there. I'll throw in a twist or two, and at times the story might be quite sad. We'll see how far I take things. I hope you're with me?

**A/N:**  
Here's now the longest chapter ever in the history of Eragon fanfics (as far as I know). Enjoy!

**Edited for spelling and grammar and reposted. **

* * *

**1. ****Parting**

_Silence reigned in the clearing by the Menoa Tree. Not one word was uttered from the elves that formed what would have been a perfect circle around a pile of wood, were it not for a short section of it missing; clearly intended to take in one more person._

_From the darkness of the forest into the twilight of the clearing emerged a male, taller than the others. He carried himself with pride, but his light blue eyes were dulled in sadness. At his belt gleamed a magnificent blade in the colour of a rose quartz, though it was made of steel._

_He headed straight to the open spot and hinted a bow at two elves on his left, where one was noticeably smaller, a little child, even by non-elfin standards. His muttered words in the Ancient Language were barely audible._

"_Queen Islanzadí. Princess Arya"_

_The former acknowledged it scarcely, only as he took his last step she nodded shortly._

"_Vrael."_

_The circle was now completed; she raised her fingertips and from them sprang green fire in a flash; it hit the wood in the centre and set it ablaze at once._

_The flames rose quickly, higher and higher into evening's sky; and only when the fire consumed the wood and the elf, Arya understood what Queen Islanzadí had announced one week ago in bitter grief: Evandar was dead. He would never come back, she would never see him again._

_The elves that formed the ring intoned a song together; it praised a heroic battle, spoke of a proud warrior and mourned his death. The hauntingly beautiful melody wavered in the clearing and seemed to fill it; and even the flames moved with the music._

_Arya's young face mirrored the feeling expressed in song, like with all the other elves, her heart was heavy with grief as she listened to the singing; and tears ran over her cheek, fell down onto the ground and moistened the grass._

_Late into the night the ceremony went, but she found solace in the shared sorrow; and at the end of the night her green eyes burned into the darkness with new resolve, strong as the legendary elfin-iron forged by Rhûnon: she would learn to fight. When she was grown, she would be better than anyone else, as good as Evandar was. And then she would finish what he had started._

_As if in response, the wind picked up; northerly, strange for this time of year. It told of changes that were going on and of those that were still to come; so far-reaching and deep that not one fortune teller could've predicted it._

Arya's face was expressionless as it was so very often, a blank mask, regal and composed. She stood perfectly still, tall and proud, every inch a warrior, in the line of the procession that had followed the four bearers, one for each corner of the white marble slab that supported King Hrothgar's body. She had her arms at her side, and, as Eragon noticed, her black hair was held back by one of her leather strips. It shimmered softly in the light of the torches.

At times like these, he wondered. She was hard to read, but after two journeys together he prided himself in the fact that he could notice the smallest signs and interpret them, like now; she stood just that tiniest bit straighter than usual, just as she had when they first met Islanzadí… she felt uncomfortable being here. But why?

_Think about it, Eragon_, came Saphira's voice. _You know she hardly expresses any emotion. And now she's here, between the weeping dwarves? Of course that would make her uncomfortable! _

_You may be right, Saphira_, Eragon pondered, _but then, why _is_ she that way? I know she can be different. What makes her behave that way?_

_That I don't know, Little One. You remember Angela's words? I agree with her, I doubt there's anyone who knows exactly where Arya is coming from, other than herself. You yourself may very well be one of those few that know more than what they see._

Saphira hummed to him quietly. _You don't plan on doing something foolish, do you? Like going to her and start asking countless personal questions about her behaviour? If she wants to tell you, she'll do so of her own accord._

_No! Saphira, I have learned better than that._

She eyed him shrewdly. _Well, at least you _have_ learned from your mistakes. That's more than some people achieve. Half a year ago, I wouldn't have been so sure you would have answered that way._

The bearers, all carrying the hammer with the twelve stars, symbol of the Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, were treading solemnly into the alcove in front of them. Here, the dwarven king would be entombed later, here would he be sealed into stone with sacred rituals no outsider was allowed to see. The drums boomed louder, the noise coming from all around him. Next to him, a dwarf let out a lamenting wail.

Eragon sighed. _I just wish I could understand her._

_Why? You don't have to understand everything._

Eragon was silent for a while. _You know the answer to that, Saphira. We had that conversation before._

He thought about what had happened since the battle.

He had woken out of his trance-like state he spent his nights in, ever since the transformation on Agaetí Blödhren, to the steady drip-dip of water droplets pelting his tent. It had begun to rain.

As it was still very early in the morning, he simply laid there on his cot and listened to the sough of the rain. He had nowhere to be, and Saphira was hunting. The wind flipped a loose part of his tent back and forth. Muted voices drifted over to him. Laughter, yelling. The metallic clang of steel meeting steel. Somewhere someone was sparring. He didn't move.

He imagined the land under the rain, heaven itself crying for all the so seemingly senseless deaths, for all the blood spilt, for all those who lost a friend, a brother, a father; tears washing away the blood and grime, washing it clean. But nothing could wash away the memories. Scenes of the past flittered through his mind, snippets of pictures, memories… A long journey through a desert, shared jokes, sparring matches, a friend, a brother in all but blood… and then he lost him, somewhere in the dark mazes beneath Farthen Dûr.

Only for him to return - no longer the person he once called his friend, but through some twisted sense of irony as his real brother… and he had to kill him. No, it was easier to think of him as lost - the Murtagh he knew died in the first battle, and what remained was simply a hostile rider, nothing more than a nameless face, a number on a paper, to be killed, if the victory was to be theirs. It was the only way he could cope.

Seconds turned into minutes and minutes into hours. In his mind, flashes of pictures from the day before replayed.

_It is mine by right of birth._

_Let me go!_

_You and I, we are the same, Eragon. Mirror images of one another. You can't deny it._

_Let me go!_

_Morzan was our father… Zar'roc should have gone Morzan's eldest son, not his youngest… Morzan was our father… You can't deny it…_

"NO!"

He shook his head wildly, trying to ban these thoughts. He was grateful that he didn't sleep and therefore didn't dream anymore. Otherwise he'd surely have nightmares throughout the night. But this way, there had been only odd pictures, fractures of the happenings in the battle, drifting in and out, never staying for long and somewhat dulled.

Still, he didn't feel overly rested, but it was better than nothing. He was still wary from the exertion the day before, but he forced his thoughts not to linger; it would only lead to things he didn't want to think about. Not now, better yet, not ever.

He had accepted the fact that he was the son of Morzan, just as he understood, on a conscious level, that Garrow was a thousand times more his father than Morzan ever could be, but that didn't mean that he was comfortable with that thought; and he did his best not to spend more time pondering about it than what was absolutely necessary.

Of course, it didn't work very well.

The flap covering the entrance of the tent moved, and dim, grey daylight filtered through the opening into the semi-darkness inside. A sapphire-blue snout soon followed, glistering wet from the rain.

_What are you doing, Little One?_

Eragon was jerked out of his thoughts.

_Nothing in particular, Saphira. Thinking. Listening._

He didn't elaborate and Saphira didn't pry, though he could tell she was curious. He'd had his shields up, to not be continuously assaulted by the countless stray thoughts from everybody around him, and had blocked her until now. He knew he was being incautious, but he didn't care.

_Well, good_, she said. _All that water rinsed my wounds, and now that the rain has stopped, they're some sort of half-dry and starting to itch. Do you feel strong enough to heal them yet?_

Eragon leapt from his cot.

_I'm so sorry, Saphira!_ he cried. _Here I lie, thinking only about yesterday's battle and its consequences for me, while completely forgetting you. Of course I'll heal them -_

Saphira hummed gently. _It's quite alright. You needed some time alone to work through everything that has happened… just don't spend too much time on it. Remember what Arya and Nasuada said; you are not Him, and neither are you His father. You are a good man, Eragon; both of them know that, and so do I._

Of course she would realize what I was thinking about, Eragon thought, and added: _Still, it's no excuse to completely forget about you. I promised I would heal you, and I'll do so now._

He began to move in the direction of the entrance, as Saphira said: _Don't fret, Eragon. If the wounds would've been mortal, I'd have reminded you. They aren't that grievous. _

She changed the topic and flicked her tongue as a teasing note entered her tone. _And before you head outside, I suggest you put something on - we can't very well have a Shur'tugal being seen running around half-naked, now can we?_

Eragon stopped with one hand at the opening, standing dumbfounded for a moment before he too started to grin. He was indeed still clad the way he slept, meaning almost not at all, and he was thankful for Saphira's successful attempt at lightening the mood.

_Indeed. That wouldn't do at all._

Quickly, he cleaned himself with a few words in the Ancient Language, before throwing on one of the spare tunics he brought with him from Ellesméra. It wasn't anywhere near as comfortable as a warm bath in his tree-home back at the elves' capital, but it would have to do. In any case, it was more than what any of the soldiers had at their disposal, but then again, _he_ wasn't a soldier, but a Rider, and had to set an example.

He went outside into the overcast day and took a moment to critically inspect Saphira's wounds, and was thoroughly shocked at her state. As she'd said, with the exception of Thorn's bite at her tail, they were neither deep nor dangerous, but the great amount of them made it look almost gruesome. As she had been outside in the rain all the time, they looked fresh and raw.

Dozens of broken arrow shafts stuck in the membrane of her wings, which were frayed at the borders, where the arrows had been torn out. Long gashes ran along her front legs, and there were countless other superficial wounds scattered all over her body. And the bite at the end of her tail had nearly severed it there.

_Saphira!_ cried Eragon. _How could you even fly with your wings in that state? Now I feel really bad!_

_I manage, Little One. Just heal them now, and everything will be alright._

Eragon started to pull a shaft out of her left wing, then muttered: "Waíse Heill."

He repeated the process over and over, and bit by bit the holes in her wings disappeared, and the translucent membrane rippled and stretched until it was just like it should be.

Saphira stretched her wings, and turned her head to take a look at them. _That is better. Do you think you could now work on my tail? I need it to balance myself._

Eragon moved at once to her tail-end and frowned, as he looked at the half-crusted bite. Under the flesh the white bones could be seen. They were partly broken, he would have to mend them first. He was once again glad that Oromis had had him read the countless scrolls about anatomy.

"Beina Heill."

He felt a little tingle of magic, and knew that the bones where once again whole. Now he had to use a more complex spell, one of the ones he had memorized from Oromis' ancient texts. The muscles and tissue knitted itself back together, and shortly after the bite was gone from Saphira's tail.

Then he moved on to the other wounds. It took quite some time to heal them all, and by the time he was finished with the last one, he felt again a little strained.

_Done._

_Thank you, Eragon. I feel as good as new._

_What should we do now?_ Eragon asked.

_Well, I suppose we could head over to Nasuada to see whether she has something to do for us_, Saphira answered. _She'll have to plan the next step of the Varden, and might want our input. Other than that, if we want to fly to Helgrind to rescue Katrina, we have to tell her, and don't forget that Jeod wants to hear our story, and, of course, we'll have to try and heal Elva._

_You're right_, Eragon agreed. _Well, let's go, then._

They moved through the lines of tents in the direction of the centre of the encampment, where Nasuada's pavilion was erected. The rain hadn't made the Burning Plains a more cheery or comfortable place to be, rather it made it all the more dreary and turned the ground into a tenacious, slippery mud.

He had once again opened his mind, and touched all living creatures, but other than the men and women from the Varden and Surda, there was nothing there. No plant, no deer, not even the tiniest ant, simply nothing - just miles and miles of dead soil. Even at the Hadarac Desert, there had been more life. But while at the Desert the loneliness felt calming and peaceful, here it felt unnatural and wrong. He couldn't wait until they'd leave this place.

During their short walk, every soldier they met stopped at what they were doing and bowed respectfully. The cries of 'Hail, Shadeslayer' preceded them, so as they arrived at Nasuada's tent, she was already waiting for them.

"Come in Eragon, " Nasuada said. "Did you both rest well?"

_Aye._

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," Eragon answered. "I've never used that much magic at once before, and I think it'll be at least another day until I'm back to my normal strength, but still, I feel better than yesterday. Well enough to heal Elva, in any case."

Nasuada nodded, as Eragon followed her inside. "She has a tent next to Angela's, you may visit her whenever you like. But first, did you already eat?"

Eragon shook his head. "Saphira did, but not I."

"I thought so. Be invited to join me at the table, in this case."

Eragon bowed. "Thank you, my Lady."

"Oh, none of that, Eragon. Save it for when there are other people around."

Eragon grinned. "As you wish, _my Lady_."

"Eragon!"

They seated themselves at the table which had been cleared of all papers, and began to eat. Between pieces of fruit Eragon told Nasuada about Roran and Katrina.

"So you want to go and rescue her, together with Saphira?"

"I promised Roran I would do it, and take him with me. The Ra'zac were also responsible for the death of Garrow, our father; that's another debt that has to be paid."

His face grew hard during his last words. Nasuada eyed him carefully.

"Well, I can't see why you wouldn't be able to go, eventually; but you might have other obligations before that. We are going to discuss our plans for the future here at noon, I will add that topic to the list. You must realize, Eragon, that you're not only duty-bound to me, but also to the elves and the dwarves. I dare say Arya and whoever is chosen from the dwarves to represent them has to say something in that matter."

Eragon nodded. "Of course. You were merely the first person I met since my talk with Roran, and I would have brought up that point on my own, if you were not going to do it."

– * –

At noon, Eragon was back at Nasuada's furnished tent. Arya followed soon after, and after that, Orik. He looked tired and mournful.

"I am sorry for your loss, Orik," Nasuada said softly.

"Aye," mumbled Orik, while taking a seat at the table. "He was a good king. I -"

He shook his head. "No matter. We are here to discuss the situation and our plans. I will speak for the dwarves, since that was Hrothgar's last order. Unfortunately, that doesn't mean much, at least as long as there is no new king."

Nasuada inclined her head. "As I feared. But we will come to that. First, the results of the battle…"

She quickly summarized, once again, the battle of the two armies, and Eragon's battle with the new rider.

"Scouts I sent after the remains of Galbatorix' troops reported that they regrouped and now are marching back to Urû'baen. It seems that Galbatorix wants to plan his next move carefully, which gives us some time."

Orik looked decidedly unhappy. "And time we will need. But what good will that do us in the end, if even Eragon couldn't stand against this treacherous new rider?"

Eragon pondered this. "I wouldn't say I don't stand a chance -"

Arya, who had remained silent until now, spoke up. "But didn't you say yesterday, that even with our spellweavers, you would be hard pressed to defeat him?"

Eragon smiled thinly. "Yes. That I said. However, in a sword-duel, I could best him. The reason I lost was that I was already exhausted, and he arrived well-rested. I believe that if I had not been as weary as I was back then, I would've had a chance, at the very least. Whatever he is now, he isn't an elf."

"Well, that is good to know," said Nasuada. "Now, for the current situation - many of the council's members are inclined to use the victory to press our advantage - in other words, they want to march to Urû'baen as soon as possible. I, on the other hand, don't think that would be wise - the time has not yet come."

"I would agree", said Orik, "even more so, as you would have to do it without the help of the dwarves. As it is now, the very first thing we have to do is to carry Hrothgar's body back to Farthen Dûr, to entomb him, and then select a new king - for both, all the dwarves are needed, so no one will remain here."

"We cannot count on the dwarves, until they have chosen a new king," Arya said. "Even then, it is not sure whether the new king will support our cause or not."

"Is that true, Orik?" Nasuada asked, but it seemed she had known it all along.

"Aye. It much depends on which clan will provide the new king, of course, but it is hard to predict. Some clan chiefs may want revenge, but others may come to the decision that we already lost too much to continue fighting, and that Galbatorix may leave us alone, if we do the same in return. Even our king cannot act completely against their wishes. "

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Nasuada said. "How long do you think until a decision is made?"

"It could take anything, from a week up to a few months. It all depends on how fast the clan chiefs are able to agree on one of them; and before that, we have to choose a new grimsborith of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum."

"So we have to wait…" Nasuada sighed. "It would be a high risk to attack the Empire as it is, but to do so without the dwarves would be foolish."

"In any case, we should wait until our warriors are ready to attack the Empire," Arya added. "It would help spread Galbatorix' forces."

"So it is a good thing, that Galbatorix has decided to retreat for the moment," Eragon concluded.

"It would seem so," Arya said. "What will _you_ do, Argetlam? I was under the impression that your training has yet to be completed."

"I will resume it, once I am no longer expressively needed here," Eragon replied. "As it seems, that may very well be sooner than I thought, but since Saphira is able to fly in a few days from Ellesméra to Surda, we can always return fairly quickly. However, as I mentioned to Nasuada before, there is something I must do."

He proceeded to explain, once again, about Roran and Katrina.

After he finished, Nasuada said: "As I told you, I don't see a problem; the Ra'zac are faithful servants of Galbatorix, and you would to us a great service if they were killed. I fear, however, that it will have to wait - I would like for you to attend King Hrothgar's funeral, as my delegate; and considering that you actually_ are_ a member of one of their clans, it would also be something that honour dictates."

Orik agreed. "Some may not like it, but even more would be offended if you were absent."

Arya had listened silently. She didn't show any sort of reaction, but Eragon thought he heard a tiny difference in her voice, once she spoke.

"I will accompany you. First to Farthen Dûr, as it is my duty as an ambassador for our people to be at the funeral, but also later on your journey to Helgrind."

It wasn't a request, but a statement, and Eragon lifted his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak up, but a look he received from Arya stopped what he was going to say.

Instead, he asked: "But wouldn't it be faster if we were just two people? Saphira can carry three, over short distances, but if we manage to rescue Katrina, we would be four, which would be too heavy for her."

Arya glanced at him. "I do not think that your cousin should travel with us to the Ra'zac's lair. He has done an admirable feat in leading his town all the way to Surda, but still, he is no warrior, and even if he was, he would still be human. I am much more capable than him, and if Katrina is dear to his heart, as you said, it might prompt him to act rashly and without thinking in a situation in which all our lives could depend on the right choice."

Nasuada frowned a little at what sounded presumptuous, but Eragon knew that Arya was simply stating a truth, as was her way.

"I understand that he would like to come," she said a little more gently, "and that you would like him to come, too, but I urge you to consider my advice."

_Did you listen, Saphira?_

_Aye, Little One, and I think, just as you do, that Arya is right. Two persons is the most I can carry if we are going to have a third one on our way back; and any other way of traveling would slow us down immensely._

Eragon sighed mentally. _Yes, she is right. However, Roran will not be pleased - first, we cannot leave a soon as he'd like, and then, he won't even be with us…_

_We'll convince him together, Eragon. After all, it is better than anything he could have hoped for - a Rider and an elf coming to Katrina's rescue._

_Well, I hope he'll see it that way, Saphira_, Eragon replied doubtfully.

Out loud, he asked: "Do you think we both will be enough against all of the Ra'zac and possibly the Lethrblaka?"

"It should at least be enough to rescue the woman," Arya answered after a while. "We don't know how many Ra'zac there are, so we might have to elude them instead of killing them, but I think we should be alright. Also, the Lethrblaka can operate in a sensible way only outside of the mountain, where we have Saphira, so they shouldn't pose an advantage too great on their side either way."

Eragon nodded. "That sounds reasonable."

"Then it is decided," Nasuada said. "The Varden will head back to Surda, while you go with the dwarves back to Farthen Dûr. After that, Eragon and Arya will set out for Helgrind, and we will have to wait, for a new king of the dwarves to be selected, or until Galbatorix makes his next move."

She sighed. "Not what I would prefer, but it seems, we have no choice. Please be careful, Eragon; and you too, Arya, we need you both."

"We will return to Surda with Katrina," Eragon said strongly. "After that, if there is still no new development, Saphira and I will most likely continue onwards to Ellesméra."

Nasuada's troubled face lost a little of its anxiety. "I do believe you will return, Eragon. I have faith in you and Arya. If you cannot do it, no one can."

She pushed her high-backed chair back, and stood up abruptly. "Well, it seems we have exhausted our topics for today."

Eragon, Arya and Orik stood up as well. As they turned to leave, Nasuada spoke up again. "A word, if you may, Eragon."

Curious, Eragon turned again, and waited, until the others had left the pavilion.

"Oh, nothing serious," Nasuada waved away his concerns, which must have shown on his face. "I just happened to hear that your people from Carvahall are planning a little feast; food, music, the likes; you would know better than I how they celebrate. They would be glad if you joined them."

Eragon stared at her, wondering. "Why wouldn't they ask themselves? It sounds like they asked you to as me!"

Nasuada grinned. "It would seem that your new look and status are just a little bit intimidating, if you understand what I mean."

Eragon shook his head. "Well, I'll see how I feel after healing Elva. I promised her I would do it as soon as possible…"

Nasuada looked at him fondly. "A noble sentiment; but I really think you should go. It may do you some good, take your mind off the war and all the other unpleasantries. You deserve a bit of time off, and I just might decide to come by as well."

"I'll keep that in mind, Nasuada."

He went to the entrance of the pavilion a second time, and walked outside. To his surprise, Arya had waited for him, next to Saphira.

As Eragon and Saphira walked in the direction of Angela's tent, Arya followed them and began to speak.

"I needn't remind you once again that I'm not a helpless human female, for whom anything more than cleaning a house might be deemed as dangerous?" she asked in the Ancient Language.

Eragon knew at once what she was speaking about and grimaced, as he answered in kind. "No, that wasn't what I intended to say back in the tent. Quite in the contrary, I know what you are capable of, and I feel honoured that you would wish to join me. I was merely going to inquire as to why."

Arya seem satisfied, and her expression became the tiniest bit softer. "Queen Islanzadí has sent twelve of our finest spellweavers to help you and protect you, if that should be necessary. But they have yet to arrive, and since I am the only elf available, I am to be your guardian in their stead. As such, I would do my Queen an ill service if I let you go on such a perilous journey alone."

"So you want to come because that is your duty?" He almost managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but Arya flinched, as she apparently picked up on his tone, and said nothing.

The walked for a while in silence, until Eragon remembered the message he received.

"Queen Islanzadí expresses her affection, by the way. She says, you are sorely missed in Ellesméra."

Arya's lips were pressed together even more tightly, if that was possible. Only when they reached Angela's tent, Arya stopped next to the now empty cauldron, and turned to face Eragon.

"Eragon…"

He gazed into her green eyes, and for a moment, there was a little spark there, as opposed to its normal cool calmness.

"What I said, back in Ellesméra, the last time we met… it still holds true. But don't you see, Eragon, this truth has two sides - while I cannot see you as anything more than a friend, you are just as certain nothing less to me. I just…"

She faltered and sighed. "I would very much like to accompany you, if you want to have me, and I will gladly give you the aid of my sword and magic, should you ask for it."

He stared at her, trying to discern if she really meant what she said, but she emitted only genuine concern and the will to help him, and he accepted it thankfully. They were indeed rebuilding their friendship, and he felt as if he had gotten a part of himself back that had been missing for quite some time.

"Thank you, Arya," Eragon replied sincerely. "I truly couldn't think of anyone I'd rather have at my side, while fighting any kind of creature."

Arya looked at him with a strange expression he couldn't fathom. Her soft, melodious voice was barely above a whisper, when she answered. "Thank _you_, Eragon. For it is something that I rarely -"

"What is it now?" The entrance to the tent was ripped open, and Angela stuck her head outside. "I told you last time -"

Then she saw Eragon and Arya. "Oh, it is you. I thought you were that witch, Trianna. She kept bothering me -"

Arya stood rigid, gazing at her impassively as she interrupted her. "Eragon is here to heal Elva," she said in a clipped tone, switching back to the common tongue. "He will do so now."

Angela seemed unimpressed. "Well, it's about time. I finally got around to writing down the end of my rant, lest I forget it - you may read it at your leisure, Eragon."

As neither moved, she cried: "Well, what are you waiting for? Come in, she's inside."

Eragon and Arya followed her into the tent, while Saphira merely stuck her head through the opening, and spoke to Eragon.

_And now you see._

_See what, Saphira?_

_Arya, of course. Compare how she spoke with you to how she speaks to other people - like Angela here and think about the difference. Think about what she says, and how she says it, if you still have doubts whether she considers you a friend. Only with you she is that open, and only when you two are alone._

_You're right, Saphira. I just… I wonder, how long it is going to last this time._

Eragon gazed at the many herbs that were strung on cords to dry, every which way above his head, while moving to the back of the tent, where Elva sat on a cot. The herbs filled the air with a peculiar scent, somewhat bitter, but also sweet, though it didn't bother him too much. It reminded him of the Spine in summer.

_As long as you use your head and can keep your feelings to yourself - just like Arya said, back in Ellesméra. And if you can't do it for yourself, do it for her sake. Didn't it cross your mind that you might very well be her only friend within next few hundred miles?_

Eragon stopped dead. Angela looked him curiously. _I - she - but surely she must have other friends?_

He could almost feel Saphira giving him a hard nudge. _And who, pray tell, should that be? One of the soldiers, perhaps, that look like they would like nothing better than to tear off her clothes? Or maybe Orrin, because she likes to listen to his confused theories?_

"What is the matter, Eragon?" asked Angela, with Arya standing silently next to her. "Did you forget what spell you wanted to use?"

Eragon shook his head and looked her, then at Arya. "Just something Saphira said."

_You're right - again._

_Of course I am_, Saphira said, a little teasingly. _I always am. You should know that by now._

Then, she was serious again. _Just try to actually _be_ a friend, and don't get stuck in your infatuation again._

_I'll try, Saphira. Maybe I really should go to that feast Roran is preparing tonight; it might help me forget a little…_

_Quite. And now go and heal Elva, they are looking funny already._

"Well, how are you going to do it?" asked Angela.

"I thought the best way would be to do the same blessing again, only this time with the right wording, since my original intention was to shield her from harm. That is a direct counter to what she is experiencing now, and if I put the right intention behind the words, they may even completely reverse it."

"You _think_?" cried Angela. "You tried _thinking_ before, and look where it got you! And what's it with this 'if' and 'may' business?"

"Err… Angela, I couldn't very well try it on someone beforehand, could I? But I'm quite sure it should work, I learned a lot during my time in Ellesméra."

Angela grumbled something about useless blockheads, but didn't say anything further, as Arya agreed that it sounded reasonable.

Eragon prompted Elva, who had listened silently, to lie down on the cot.

"I think I will put you to sleep before we begin," he said to her.

Now, as she was about to be relieved of her curse, she seemed nervous, but after a short time, her usual stoic appearance returned. She looked slyly at Eragon and Arya, before a wicked smile tucked at the corner of her lips.

"Before you begin though, and take away your _gift_, Rider, let me give you the information of your potential doom. I ask: If you gave your heart away, and received nothing in return, what is it that remains? And if you got something, and then lost it - where would be the difference?"

Arya stood as rigid as before, and Eragon stared at Elva. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Elva's violet eyes stared right back at him. Suddenly, there was a foreign presence in his mind. He recoiled from it, as it was so vastly different from anything he had encountered before, be it human, urgal, dwarf or elf; it felt spiky and cold, like an icy claw, and he didn't like it at all.

And then he heard her voice.

_I know what troubles you, and I know who the cause of it is. So know this: After some time, I had felt everybody, as everybody experience at one point or another feelings of pain or discomfort, be it physical, or, like in your case, mental - I receive them equally, day and night. There's nobody who has never had a bad feeling, because they all _have_ feelings - nobody, that is, except the elf. Make of it what you will._

And with that she closed her eyes, and the presence disappeared.

_What was that, Saphira!_

Eragon stood shakily next to the cot, thoroughly shocked.

_I dare say that was Elva, Eragon. She certainly is an unusual child._

_Did you understand the meaning of her words?_

Saphira hesitated. _I think I might. But I won't tell, you have to figure it out for yourself. It concerns you, and you only, and it would not be right if I told you._

Eragon wanted to argue, but he had to heal Elva. He pushed Elva's strange words back into a corner of his mind, and put her to sleep.

"Slytha."

_Are you there, Saphira?_

_Of course I am._

He felt her powerful presence in his mind, and then lifted his hand, placed it upon her silver, star-shaped mark on Elva's forehead and started to speak the blessing again.

"Atra gülai un ilian tauthr ono un atra ono waíse sköliro frá rauthr."

He fixed the goal of working against Elva's plight firmly in his mind, it would be the main intention behind the word _sköliro_, 'shielded'. He felt the rush of magic leaving him, but this time, something returned - the icy claw was back, gripping him, twisting and roaring against the magic he tried to apply. It didn't want to leave, and his magic depleted even faster. Soon he had to draw upon Saphira's reserves.

Then the voices came. It was like a thousand people standing around him, all crying out to him in need of help, but they were strangely muffled. The icy coldness receded bit by bit, and the magic warmed him, turned hotter, nearly burning him - and then it was over.

He collapsed next to Elva.

_Eragon! Are you alright?_

"Need… to lie down."

He didn't feel the pillow that was moved under his head, as he fell into a deep sleep.

– * –

Eragon woke with a start. That hadn't been one of his normal trance-like states; he had completely lost consciousness. He looked around the dusky tent. In a corner, Angela was busy cutting something. Without turning around, she said: "Oh, good, you're awake. Drink this."

She filled something in a mug, and put her cuttings inside. Then she walked over to him. Eragon took the drink, and took a few sips. He felt his strength slowly returning.

"What time is it?"

"Oh, somewhere in the late afternoon," she answered satisfied. Then Saphira poked her nose into the tent.

_Eragon! You're awake!_

"What happened?"

"You stood almost an hour over Elva, glowing and whatnot." She crinkled her nose. "But at least it seemed to work - she awoke for a short time and has been sleeping quite peacefully since. Arya had to leave for something or another, but she has been coming by every now and then. Mysterious folk, those elves. Especially Arya, I doubt there is anyone other than herself that understands her completely."

_I think it did work. I felt it receding in the end_, said Saphira. _Whatever it was._

Eragon stood. "Where is she now?"

"In her tent, next to mine. Look at her, if you like, but _don't_ disturb her."

Eragon went outside and into the tent to the right. It was much smaller, but just as dim. On her cot sat Elva, eyes wide open in wonder. She looked just as she did before, but she didn't seem so tense anymore.

Eragon hesitated.

"How are you?"

At that moment, Angela bustled into the tent. "Eragon! I _told_ you not to wake her!"

"But she was -"

"How do you feel, Elva?"

"Oh, it's alright," she told them offhandly. "I still feel the pain of those around me, but only if I concentrate on it, and without being able to determine the exact cause. And I don't have the urge to help everyone anymore. So there, I'd like to thank you, Eragon."

Angela stared at him disgruntled. "It's better than nothing, I suppose. Will you be alright, Elva?"

"Oh, yes. Don't mind me. Really, I've been able to sleep peacefully for the first time since we first met, Shadeslayer"

So something of the old Elva was still there, Eragon thought.

"Well, you heard her. Out, out!" Angela pushed Eragon out of the tent. "And do mind what you say, the next time you try to bless some unfortunate child that is unlucky enough to cross your way."

Eragon grinned. "I promise, I will, Angela."

He went to Saphira.

_I think I will rest some more, until it is time to meet Roran and the other people from Carvahall. I am still tired._

_As you should be! The battle was only yesterday, and today, you used a lot of energy, again._

_Well, at least Elva is better, Saphira_, Eragon said, as they reached his tent. _Wake me when it is time?_

_Sure, Little One. You just sleep._

– * –

The flames of the crackling bonfire rose high into the black-blue sky, in which the first stars could be seen. People sat in small groups next to the fire on wooden benches, talking, laughing, and generally being happy and joyous.

They were all there - Horst, with both of his sons, Albriech and Baldor and his wife Elain, Fisk and Isold, Morn and Tara, Loring and his sons, Gertrude, Birgit, Thane and Calitha, and many more. All of Carvahall, with only few exceptions.

Saphira was laying next to the fire, contently humming a deep tune, the flickering flames making her scales shine. Eragon was sitting together with Jeod, a bit apart from Roran, Horst and his family. He had promised the merchant the story of Brom's death, and now he had the opportunity to tell it. He spoke about his ill-fated trip to Dras-Leona, about the Ra'zac and how they wanted to find them, only to be ambushed by them in return.

"When they fled, one of them hurtled a dagger towards me. Brom, he… he just jumped in front of me. There was nothing I could do…"

Eragon trailed off. After all this time, it still hurt. Jeod placed his hand on his arm.

"As much as it pains me to say it, there was nothing you _should_ have done. Brom made a choice, and decided that your life was worth more than his own. And I think the same. You are the future, Eragon, and that night, Brom gave his life to ensure its continued existence. I thank you for telling me this."

There was a long silence. Both men were lost in thoughts, until Roran came over.

"Hey! What's got you all quiet? You ought to celebrate, but instead you sulk! Come over!"

Jeod shook his head. "You're right, Roran. I apologize, Eragon. That story was not the best way to raise your spirits, I shouldn't have asked."

"Nonsense, Jeod. It was the least I could do for you."

"Well, now that this is settled," interrupted Roran, "come over and have some something to drink. It's the last barrel of Quimby's winter ale - I could barely convince Morn to part with it for the occasion."

He pushed a tankard into Eragon hands, and they sat down next to Horst and Roran. Soon enough, Eragon felt most of his worries slip away, as he joined the light talking, listening and laughing like the others over a story with more than questionable truth that Morn told. It was just like he remembered from Carvahall, the people, the stories… it seemed as if nothing had changed.

Others joined them, like Thane and his wife, and their oldest children, Cally and Tares. They clapped him on his back.

"It's good to have you back Eragon, even if you look like one of those elves. It's just like the old times, is it not?"

Others laughed and nodded. They lifted their tankards to him, and Morn began another story, just as far fetched, and of course, with him as the brave hero.

A bit of dismay came over Eragon. Did they think of his transformation as something that wasn't right? He liked his new features, and was sure he'd never want to go back to like he was before that night of Agaetí Blödhren, even without his scar.

Cally looked at him admiringly. "You're telling us much, if the night is long and the ale plentiful, Morn, but I bet Eragon could come up with stories just like that _and_ be telling the truth!"

The others laughed again, and even louder as Morn said: "I'll have you know that I was telling the plain truth all the time!"

Loring yelled over: "Aye, just like that time when you told us you wrestled with an Urgal until you defeated him and took his horns to hang 'em inside your old tavern, and we later found out that it was Fisk who found him first - already dead!"

More laughter erupted, and Morn grumbled good-naturally.

"Well, then, go on, Eragon," Morn encouraged him. "It seems those sticklers prefer listening to you."

"Yes, do tell, Eragon," said Cally. "You simply _must_ have experienced the most amazing things. Did you really fight a Shade?"

Eragon didn't really want to talk about himself, but the others cheered and pleaded, and so he began to tell them about his fight with Durza in Gil'ead, though he left out Arya. It didn't feel right to bring her up, somehow. His audience gasped and applauded at times they thought the story to be thrilling or exciting, but Eragon's heart wasn't in it. They made it sound so heroic, but that wasn't what it had been like.

As the night went on, they drank more, and ate, though Eragon received many looks as he passed over the meat. Roran couldn't understand it.

"What happened to you Eragon? It is good, healthy meat! You used to hunt all the time in the Spine to fetch it for us, why won't you eat it anymore?"

Eragon shook his head. "You wouldn't understand. It is something that happened during my time with the elves."

Roran stared at him strangely, but let it go.

Eragon felt warm and comfortable. He moved lazily on his bench, not quite as controlled as he had been when the feast had started. Fisk took out his wooden flute, and began to play some of the old songs everybody knew. Soon the all sang along, and the first couples started to dance next to the fire. Cally stood up as well, and pulled him up.

"Let's dance, Eragon!"

Eragon felt himself pick up the well-known tune easily, and danced with Cally next to the others. Her dark blonde hair flew behind her; she was the only girl in Carvahall with this particular colour, just like Albriech, and many of the young men in town had tried to win her heart.

Eragon himself had looked at her more than once, as was only natural with her well-rounded form, but she hadn't spared him a second glance, and he had been content with the knowledge that his imaginations were just that, as she was several years older than him, and would have held no interest in a mere boy.

Now though…

Her light blue eyes sparkled in the light of the flames. Fisk played a slower song, telling from the love of two people a long time ago, and she moved closer. He felt her warm breath on his neck, the touch of her hands, and her bosom pressed against him.

It was a nice feeling, he decided. He could get used to it. Saphira snorted next to fire, but, thankfully, didn't comment. The music picked up in speed, they whirled faster, turning their surroundings into blurry shapes that faded away. Everything was a haze, everything but the girl in his arms, pressed against him; he felt flushed, hot, her body radiating just as much heat as his own; almost burning.

Everything seemed so far away, unimportant; nothing mattered but here and now, nothing but their dance, their closeness. And then, she tilted her head, and captured his lips with hers. He was almost too stunned to react, and for a time did nothing; he felt her soft mouth, kissing him; felt himself kissing her back.

She smelled like some wild flowers, he thought, as he clumsily tried to respond to her actions. It was a nice smell … but something wasn't right. Another smell came unbiddingly to his mind; crushed pine-needles; another person, slim, with black hair instead of blonde, green eyes instead of blue… and it was this person that kissed him, it was - not. No, it was not.

She wasn't her. Never her. Couldn't be. No one could.

_Arya…_

He abruptly broke the kiss, and turned away from her, almost pushing her backwards, tripping, ignoring her questions. He stumbled past Thane, who was currently debating with some other villagers about the war, with more ale and beer. He was quite red in the face.

"…of course the elves won't come! They haven't come until now, so why should that change? And it's better that way, if you ask me… can't really trust those creatures - where have they been all the time, while here people were dying under that tyrant of a king, I ask you? The further away they are, the better. We're better off without the lot of them, that's what I say, and we don't need their magics - no good has ever come from those who could wield it.

"The one we have here is more than enough for me, always indifferent, no reactions whatsoever, not even when she saw the half-burned body of old Sart, may he rest in peace! I tell you, it's unnatural! So you see? They don't care! And really, their males are supposed to look the same as that thing does - no honest man should look like that, with their pointy ears and whatnot."

Then he noticed Eragon and thumped him on the back. "Present company excepted, of course. You aren't really one of _those_ anyway, you're our Eragon."

Eragon felt a cold fury building up in himself as he heard Thane talking like that about Arya, but after all his training, he managed to restrain himself.

"I _am_ an elf, thank you very much!"

But Thane had already turned back again to the others, who nodded to his words, and didn't hear him. Eragon couldn't take it anymore. He had to get away. Away from here, away from them. He broke into a run, and his feet carried him through the warm night, past the fire, away from the people dancing, singing and laughing without a care in the world; faster, faster, as fast as he could run, as far away as he could get.

He arrived at the banks of the Jiet River that flowed slowly through its bed. He collapsed onto the sandy ground, and stared into the swiveling darkness in front of him; his thoughts scrambled and confused.

He couldn't have said how long he laid there, but after some time, the view of the steady stream of water that passed him soothed his troubled mind, calmed him, and he righted himself, staring only at the water, using it to meditate, until he felt at peace at last. He looked up into the clear sky, listening to the sounds that drifted over with the warm breeze - the playing of a flute and the other typical noises of celebrating.

Singing, laughter, happy talking, the thumping of two tankards, filled with Morn's ale. It was near, he could see the bonfire clearly, but it could have been just as well miles and miles; it was there, but is wasn't for him.

There was an invisible wall separating him and the others, and he had been too blind to see it before. A fool he had been, thinking that he could forget about what he was, even for a short time, and pretend that everything was like back in his blithe childhood days. That part of his life was over, once and for all; he couldn't bring it back through whatever means, and all that remained of it were his memories.

Now his status set him apart from his old friends, and it didn't help to pretend that nothing had happened. He didn't blame them, for it was not their fault; he was the one who had changed, above and beyond any imagination. They simply didn't, _couldn't_ understand his new life, they had no idea what it was like, had no idea of the many things he experienced away from them that shaped him into what he was now.

No, the Eragon they had known had left the village, never to return. But strangely, that fact didn't hurt as much as he would have expected it to; it was, as he had told Saphira before - everything he was now was inextricably linked with her, and he wouldn't miss his connection with her for all of Alagaësia. Even now, he could feel her presence, sleeping, dreaming.

No, whatever the cost, he liked who he was now. And that was an elf, and a Rider.

His mind detected a new presence, coming up behind him. It was Cally. He sighed. With his anger at Thanes ignorance and insults at Arya, he had almost forgotten about her. It was another sign. He had liked her once, back in his last summer at Carvahall, before he had found Saphira's egg, had admired her, and dreamt about her - but now, that was gone.

They, like with all the others, had grown apart, in nary a year. He didn't belong anymore, their behaviour seemed strange to him at times, and he was sure, they saw him the same way. His time at Ellesméra had changed him so much, and most noticeable was not the new body, but the way he thought and acted.

And whenever he now tried to recall how he had felt, back when he had still been in Carvahall and looking at Cally, Arya always pushed away the picture of Cally in his mind.

He couldn't get her out of his mind, as hard as he tried, not even for a woman like Cally, beautiful by any human standard and whom he had liked once. Whenever Arya was concerned, there simply was no comparison. Everyone paled in his mind beside her.

"What are you doing here, Cally?" he asked without looking up.

She had been near him for a while now, and jumped at the sudden words.

"Oh! Eragon. I didn't think you knew I was here; you startled me."

She took a seat beside him on the bank of the river, and looked at him. "I had a good time tonight, Eragon."

He didn't face her, but continued to stare ahead. He would have given everything for simply being able to ignore her words, but the meaning was clear.

His thoughts drifted back to another starry night, to another two people sitting together in the darkness near a stream, and he almost laughed at the bitter, bitter irony of his next words, sounding so very alike, only now, he was the one saying them.

"I'm sorry, Cally. I can't give you what you seek."

"Why not?" she demanded. "Is it someone else?"

"Cally, I -"

"It is that elf, isn't it? I can tell, the way you look at her. You shouldn't raise your hopes; she is incapable of feeling anything. Either way, she wouldn't be good for you - always running headfirst into the battle, really, no decent woman should behave that way! You need someone to take care of you, to be there for you when you return home, and not a - an Amazon like that!"

Eragon had stiffened during her words. They sounded just like the things Arya had said and yet - while sitting here, next to the river in the darkness, and listening to them now, again, he suddenly knew, with indubitable clarity, that they were both completely wrong.

That wasn't what he wanted nor was it what he needed, and it would certainly never serve to make him happy. He thrived in Arya's company because she challenged him, in so many ways, because she intrigued him, and because she could take care of herself - and any lesser woman wouldn't do at all. It was more than an infatuation, it was a central point of his being.

"Cally, you do not understand - I am not the one you knew in Carvahall anymore, I am a Rider now, _and_ I am an elf - I am going to live forever, whereas you will grow old and eventually die, and that shall never change. You should look for someone that is more suitable, don't lose yourself to something that cannot be."

And that was another point, he thought. Even if he would have loved her, a relationship would have been doomed from the start, for he would outlive any and all human, and so eventually be alone again. But she seemingly hadn't listened, as she continued.

"It isn't just. How could anyone ever stand next to that elf? So beautiful and flawless, no human could ever compare! You raised a claim so high that no one can hope to measure up against it. No one can even begin to match her."

Eragon gently laid a hand shoulder, and brushed away a few tears that slowly made their way down her young face.

"I am sorry, Cally. Never think that it is you. You are young and beautiful. Someday you will find a man worthy of your affection. But it is not I. I have lost my heart already, so you never stood a chance."

He swallowed and stared straight ahead, ignoring the burning in his eyes. "Your last words speak true; more so, than you will ever know."

He stood up, turned, and walked away from her. In the distance he could Saphira's shape approaching, he waited for her, until she had caught up with him.

Saphira nudged his side.

_Is everything alright, Eragon?_

_No, not quite._

_Why? You had a good time tonight, as far as I could tell, and that girl seemed like she could make your night even better -_

_I turned her down. _He gave a mental, hollow laugh_. Maybe now I know what Arya felt, the night _I _asked her._

_What? Why? Did you do it because of me? I wouldn't have minded her; she was a nice girl._

_No, it had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me._

_You didn't do it because of Arya, did you?_

Eragon didn't answer.

_You did? Oh, Little One, why would you do that? _Saphira cried sadly.

_Can you not stop thinking about her? All it serves is to make you miserable. You know what she told you, she couldn't have possibly been any clearer in her words. Can you not simply choose another one?_

Eragon slumped to the ground and leaned himself at Saphira's body.

_What other choice do I have? Whom should I choose instead? There is no human that will ever live as long as I do, if we manage to survive this war. And then, I don't belong into that world, I am not a human anymore. So if I don't belong with her and the elves either, I… I've got no place to be. Tonight I realized that. I tried, Saphira, really, I did, but it is just no use…_

He felt the tears well up in his eyes and threatening to fall.

_We have grown apart so much, the people from Carvahall and I. They don't really understand me anymore, and it is the same in return. And Cally… I liked her, but now, when I touch her, I think about Arya's skin. When I kissed her, I thought about kissing Arya. No, Saphira, it is as she said: no one can measure up against Arya. She is the only one I could ever love, and yet, if she is the only one I cannot have, then I will have no one._

_You will always have me, Eragon. I love you._

_I know Saphira. I do, too._

Saphira felt helpless, it was the only thing she could say, and it felt so utterly lacking. She curled her wings around Eragon, as he cried for a long time, tears running down his elfin face, falling through the air and splashing onto the ground, until he eventually drifted into his trance-like state of sleep. She pondered sadly what she could do to help, but came up with nothing.

– * –

The first rays of light crept over the horizon and lightened the Burning Plains. Saphira stirred, and nudged Eragon.

_Wake up, Eragon! The dwarves are leaving today, and we have yet to tell Roran about our change of plans._

Eragon slowly emerged from under Saphira's wings and stretched himself. He felt quite terrible, if he was honest. Yesterday's happenings were far from being remotely alright; the realizations looked just as bad in the morning as they did the night before.

It was Arya. Only her. Always her. He felt torn between what he wanted, even though he knew he could not have it, and what he had - the friendship with her, that was only just on its tentative way back to normality.

Normality. He gave a hollow laugh. Nothing was ever _normal_, when it came to him. He was tempted to throw all caution in the wind, and try once again - because -

_You love her, don't you?_

…_Yes, Saphira. Yes, I do._

Saphira nudged him sadly with her snout.

_Oh, Little One. I wish so badly there was something I could do to help you, but I don't know what, and my only advise will bring you even more pain… Remember what I told you yesterday. You can't show her those feelings, it would make her uncomfortable, and you would lose even her friendship._

_I know, Saphira._

He had to push his feelings away, he would manage, somehow. He would not endanger their newly build friendship. Arya needed him as a friend. He would give her that, at least.

Dried traces of tears wee visible on his face. But life had to go on, it always did. To much depended on him, he didn't have the time to be miserable. He stood, rigid, in the air of the new dawn, and schooled his face into an unmoving mask. No one had to know that he wasn't alright.

_We should head back to our tent first thing; I need to make myself presentable. After that we can look for Roran._

They walked back to the encampment, which luckily, with the exception of a few soldiers standing guard, was still asleep; though not for long, as today the Varden would start striking their camp, packing things to head back to Aberon. So by the time Eragon reemerged from his own tent, everything was quite busy.

In front of his tent stood Roran, looking anxious.

"Eragon! There you are. We didn't get a chance to talk much, yesterday - did you speak with Nasuada about Katrina already?"

Eragon looked at him uncomfortable. "Aye, that I did. But you may not like it."

"Why not? What did she say?"

"I will not be going to Helgrind -"

At once, Roran looked furious. "Nothing less than what I should have expected from someone like you. Apparently, your word means as little as Galbatorix'. Thane was right -"

At this moment Saphira pounced on him.

_**Never**__ compare Eragon to that traitor. And never insinuate that a Shur'tugal like mine would go back on his word. Whether you may like it or not, Roran Stronghammer, Eragon has more duties to attend to than just this one. If you would have let him finish, you would have known that already!_

She barred her teeth over his face and projected the word directly into his mind.

_It's alright, Saphira_, Eragon told her. _I think he got the point._

Saphira slowly let up on Roran, who remain wide-eyes with his back on the ground.

"Saphira doesn't take to kindly to insulting either her or me. Now, as I wanted to say, I will not be going to Helgrind _right now_, because I am to represent Nasuada at the funeral of Hrothgar, the fallen king of the dwarves, which will be held at their home in the Beor Mountains. After that, I am free to travel wherever I like - including Helgrind."

"But the Beor Mountains -" Roran struggled to recall the map "- they are located in the exact opposite direction, are they not? It would be a great circuit!"

Eragon shook his head. "It is of no matter, Roran, because I will be flying all the way on Saphira's back. She is faster than any horse, we will be able to reach Katrina in a few days time, even from the Beor Mountains."

"But - but -"

"And that is the second point. I'm afraid you won't be able to come with us."

"What? Eragon, I -"

Eragon raised his hand. "Hear me out, Roran. Saphira can only carry two people, three at most. Arya is going to accompany me, as is her duty, so if you would still wish to come, we would have to use horses, which would take weeks to reach Helgrind. It is either that, or Saphira, Arya and I."

Roran visibly slumped. "I promised myself I would rescue her. All the way from Carvahall to here, it was what was driving me onwards; it was the very reason I _left_ Carvahall in the first place, Eragon! And now you tell me I cannot help with her rescue? It would mean that I have failed!"

"I am truly sorry, Roran. And I don't think you have failed, quite in the contrary. What you've done has never been done before, leading an entire village across a whole country! That alone is a remarkable feat. And in doing so, you reached us - we will do our best to get her, Roran, I promise. You've got a dragon, her Rider and an elf on your side; I don't know another man that could claim the same. You haven't failed at all."

Roran sighed. "I see that I won't be able to change your mind. And you are right, you, Saphira and your elf are an impressive force to be sure. If you cannot get Katrina, than nothing short of an army can. I just wish that I could be there as well."

Eragon put his hand on Roran's shoulder. "I know. But you'll see, we'll be back before you know it."

Roran nodded. "Can I - can I see her, again? What you did last time we were in your tent?"

Eragon moved inside the tent, Roran followed him and watched as Eragon filled a little water into a bowl and murmured: "Draumr kópa."

Once again, the shimmering liquid turned black and revealed after what to Roran seemed an endless time Katrina, still slumped against the invisible wall of darkness around her, although this time she was awake. She looked straight up at both of them.

"She looks at us!" exclaimed Roran. "Do you think she can tell we are watching?"

Eragon shook his head. "No, she wouldn't know. It's just a coincidence that she's looking in this direction."

"Oh well," sighed Roran, "at least she is still alive. Thank you, Eragon."

Eragon let the spell fade, and the water turned clear again.

"We have to pack out things, Roran; the dwarves will leave sooner than the rest of the Varden."

Roran gripped his arm tightly. "Then stay safe, Eragon. And get to Katrina quickly, as fast as you can."

"I will, Roran. You'll see."

Roran nodded and left the tent.

_Well, that went remarkable well, all things considered_, thought Eragon.

_After I pounced on him._

_Well, yes. That too._

Saphira snorted. _If I wouldn't have done it, he'd still be yelling. And you have to admit, his expression was quite funny._

_It was_, admitted Eragon, while gathering the few things he had actually unpacked from Saphira's saddlebacks to put them back in.

_That doesn't mean you're allowed to jump at every person you met, only to have a look at their faces, though._

…_not? What a shame._

But even the shared joke did little to raise his spirits. Eragon finishes his packing, just as Saphira outside told him that Arya and Nasuada were approaching.

_Nasuada carries something._

He emerged from his tent with the saddlebacks, and looked curiously at the piece of cloth, that covered whatever Nasuada held in her hands.

"Oh, so you're a packed already", said Nasuada relieved. "I wasn't sure… and I had no opportunity to tell you, I didn't find you yesterday night - wherever have you been? I was looking forward to a dance with you, on that feast of Roran's, but you had already left…"

Arya imperceptible raised an eyebrow at her words, but neither noticed.

Eragon looked uneasily past her, after her reminder of last night.

"I was with Saphira," he said at last.

Nasuada looked at him strangely, but didn't ask further questions.

"Well, in any case, the dwarves are ready to leave - and I have come to say good-bye and give you a parting present."

She lifted the cloth, and unveiled a sword and a scabbard. The silver scabbard was adorned with a different coloured metal, dark plant-like stems that twined around it, twisting and winding, but the sword itself was plain, simple steel that shimmered the lightest shade of blue in the sun.

He took it and swung it in an arch, testing its balance. It felt good in his hand, and even if it was no match for the agility that Zar'roc provided, it was far better than what he had seen on most soldiers.

"It was my father's," Nasuada explained softly. "I know that it is not much compared with the one you've lost, but since you need a sword, I thought you might like this one, at least until you get a new Rider's sword."

Eragon gasped. He could very well see her father in this sword. No needless embellishment, rather a well-balanced weapon, sharp and deadly. Just like Ajihad himself had been, uncomplicated and direct, but hard, if he needed to be.

"Nasuada, I cannot accept this, if it was you father's! What if I lose it, or it gets broken somehow? I would never forgive myself!"

"Nonsense, Eragon. You need a sword, so you might as well take this one. I have my own, and I've got other things from father, and in any case, he doesn't live forth in keepsakes and trinkets, but in our memory. I'm sure he would have wanted you to have it."

"Well, if you are sure…"

"I'm quite sure, Eragon."

He slit the sword in its scabbard, and fastened it on the belt of Beloth the Wise, which he had put on. It felt good to have a sword back in place, even if it wasn't Zar'roc. Somehow, he had felt a bit naked without one.

"So then it is time to say our farewells," Nasuada said. She seemed undecided for a moment, but then grabbed Eragon and pulled him into a hug.

"Fly safe, Eragon, and take care of yourself. We - cannot lose you."

Eragon returned the hug awkwardly, another reminder of last night. "We will, Nasuada."

She let go of Eragon, and turned to Arya and Saphira. "You too."

Arya nodded, and Saphira thumped her tail onto the ground.

_Fear not, Nasuada, we will return._

Then Eragon quickly strapped the saddle and the saddle-bags onto Saphira, and the three of them set out to where the dwarves were gathered. Orik was already waiting. He still looked mournful, but better than the days before, and didn't say much, other than giving the signal to leave.

Saphira and Eragon had decided to fly together, since it had been some time since their last flight - well, two days, to be exact, but that was long enough in Saphira's opinion. Eragon mounted her, and they took off into the clear sky, finally away from the wastelands of the Burning Plains; flying slow meander, like the Jiet River glittering in the sunlight below them, as they followed the army of the dwarves and Arya.

– * –

It took them the better part of a week to reach the Beor Mountains, and just as long to arrive at Farthen Dûr. The second part of the journey was spent almost completely underground, which was natural for the dwarves, but Saphira didn't like it overly much. Even so, nothing extraordinary happened during that time; the dwarves were amazingly fast, considering their height, but of course Saphira could have been much faster, had she been flying.

As they were part of the procession that had been assembled for Hrothgar's last journey, though, they reached Farthen Dûr together. Weary from the long period in darkness, Eragon gratefully climbed early into the bed in the rooms that had been provided for him, without really noticing the beauties of Tronjheim, to be ready for the funeral the next day.

The proceedings were just as Eragon remembered them from Ajihad's funeral. He had put on his festive attire that had been laid out next to his bed. The body of King Hrothgar had been robed into luxurious garments and laid on a white slab of purest marble, and the procession continued into the depths of Tronjheim, accompanied by the deep drumbeats.

_Boom!_

The cold air moved. He shivered in the darkness and glanced at Arya again, standing next to him. He valued her friendship more than anything, and she, too, seemed happier than before, at least at times. During their travelling to Farthen Dûr, they had shared many pleasant talks, and he enjoyed her company.

He was somewhat proud of the fact that he had managed to keep his feelings concealed. He was learning to control his emotions; it would be helpful in many situations, especially in battles. Arya seemed to appreciate his efforts, and it would make many things easier. His thoughts drifted to the next day. Tomorrow, they would set out for Helgrind, Arya, Saphira and he. He was looking forward to it, because while he had liked Hrothgar, and was a member of his clan, he felt out of place at this funeral.

_Boom!_

It would good to be outside, flying, fighting together, just the three of them. He was looking forward to it. But inside, a part of him felt cold, as if he was slowly dying.

* * *

**A/N:**  
The next chapter is titled "Flying", but I really don't know when I'll come round typing it, as I have other projects as well. Still, in the meantime you can always review – there are many things in this chapter, foreshadowing, hidden and not-so-hidden, that are waiting to be discovered – so you should have enough to write about… please?

Most things revolve around Arya, of course; we are seeing her from more than one perspective – and sometimes it is those that are away the furthest, that are able to see most clearly…

On another note, I know that I have been neglecting my C2 Eragon/Arya group, but I just might find some time in the near future to look through the new fics and add a few of them. Look out for it.


	2. Flying

**Disclaimer:**  
All is C.P.'s but my fleeting thoughts' journey into a wonderful world faraway.

**A/N:**  
Well, here it is, finally. And it is not edited as much as I normally do, so I may put up a revised version later on – I wanted to get it out, especially as I got PM's asking about the progress … never had that happen before. I apologise for the extreme delay, but I have to say, writing from Arya's POV is really hard. It was the point where I was stuck for a very long time. After that, I wrote the other 2/3 of the chapter in like four or five days. And yet again, it turned out twice as long as I anticipated.

Anyway, I think about the only thing that saved me from completely binning that first part was that I knew exactly how I pictured Arya for this story. It helped to decide between 'Yeah, that sounds about right' and 'No, that isn't Arya at all.'

The problem was, of course, that in 90 percent, it was the latter.

However, I think I now have found a style that works for me. I'm writing her mostly from the outside, so what defines her will be her actions and words, as opposed to her thoughts. That means not everything will be spelled out; you have to create your own view of her based on what I give you; but for me, that works better. Or maybe it is the only way that works at all. It seems like the ultimate character trait – Arya is unapproachable, even for the writer. The style of this chapter reflects that.

Then, number one of the list that shows you did something right: Another FF-author whose stories you enjoyed pops up at your Alert list. So if you're reading this, Brant, I'm honoured that I have your interest. Your story was the very first time I tried something that was labelled 'AU', and it made me interested in reading more; so much so, that now I'm writing my own, albeit in German. I'm a member of your Yahoo-Group, although not very active.

Really, though, I like all of you nice people who read my story and maybe even left a review or added me to a C2. I think I replied to everyone, even if it took me some time – the only exception was mightiest rider; somehow the mail address you gave me didn't work.

At any rate, I knew there was a reason I started writing in English. The response to the first chapter alone was greater than the one to my German story as a whole. Thanks, to all of you.

Finally, to this chapter.

After reading it, you might realise that each starts off with an episode of Arya's life. This one has a strange history. I had finished writing the scene, when it all suddenly felt familiar. Wasn't there something similar in the books? So I got my Eldest book, and, yes, there it was; the chapter titled 'Arrow to the heart'.

And here it became interesting: I wanted to show a very specific side of Arya, that I was sure was in her character, somewhere, although at that time I didn't find it in the books (read my scene, and you know what I mean). So when I later discovered that chapter in Eldest again, it was a very satisfying experience to be proven right.

But what was more, I remembered that when I first read Eldest, that chapter didn't make much sense to me – it seemed so random, I thought, and served no real purpose. But now, I had given myself the answer – it's an integral part of Arya's character, and C.P. wanted to show it in the same way I did here (Well, rather the other way round, but I swear I didn't remember any of the chapter as I wrote my scene). 'Arrow to the heart' is indeed a very important chapter, maybe even a key chapter if you want to understand Arya.

Two more things, before I shut up: One, Arya may seem to have a very anti-human stance here, but that isn't quite the case, it's just her reaction to the horrible things she's seen. Elves are superior to human in many ways, especially after Galbatorix began his tyranny; remember that scene where Nari and Lifaen tell Eragon how much of the human culture has been lost since then?

And two, every time Eragon and Arya are alone and it is not specifically stated otherwise, they speak in the Ancient Language.

**Edited for spelling and grammar and reposted.**

* * *

**2. Flying**

_Happy laughter pealed through the sturdy old trees of the forest of Ellesméra. A young girl, maybe ten years old by human standards, broke through the green leafs of the birch-trees that lined the edge of the clearing, running fleet-footed over the lush grass of the sun filled glade, her black hair waving behind her._

_She laughed again, a beautiful sound; like a mockingbird, full of happiness and joy, praising the pleasure of life; or like the gurgling of a fresh, clear stream, jumping over the pebbles in its bed of moss._

_Her feet carried her across the meadow, on the playful chase of a butterfly in brilliant colours of dark blue and gold, her green eyes sparkling, wide with delight. She felt the warm grass under her bare feet, tickling it, smelled the flowers of the summer, and tasted the sunshine; she felt so full of life, so free, so gloriously summer-like._

_So fast she ran that it almost seemed like she was flying, her soles never touching the ground, her eyes fixed on the butterfly; she watched it flying higher, as it shimmered in the sunlight, until she lost the small, bright dot against the equally blue sky. Only then she stopped, and looked around._

_Her ears picked up a sound, something like a screech, but barely above the low rustle of the leaves in the summer-breeze. Curiously, she turned, bent twigs aside and entered the forest once more. She could see clearly in the dim rays of light that filtered through the treetops, as clearly as in the sun-bathed clearing, but there was nothing. No movement was visible between the shadows of the trees._

_She extended her awareness, encompassing everything, every life, animal or plant, around her. The trees hummed their sleepy tunes, ancient and wise, a continuous ebb and flow, like the wind that gently rocked them, back and forth. Then there were small insects, buzzing here and there, seemingly without any sense or order, yet all part of greater entity, if one knew where to look._

_And then, there was something that disturbed the quiet peace, like a shrill scream. She felt it like a stab with knife in her back. Hurt. So much hurt._

_She recoiled from it, but soon pushed against her instinct. She had to help it, wherever it was. She gritted her teeth and focused solely on this being, until she saw it in her mind clearly, as bright a light as a lone candle in the dark, pointing out a direction in which to go. She tracked it, deeper into the forest, ducked under low-hanging branches, jumped over roots, never noticing that she was running almost as fast as she could, until the last bushes gave way to a small, nearly circular forest lake._

_The dark green trees that surrounded it were reflected on the surface, and gave the water a blackish hue. Taking a step further towards the perfectly still lake, she bent over it; seeing only the pale reflection of her face and her green eyes staring back at her, like from within a dark mirror; everything deeper than the foremost surface hidden and shrouded in darkness._

_Whatever secrets the inky depths of the lake held, it didn't part with them freely, would hold onto them and give anyone attempting to unveil the mysterious live beneath the surface as hard a struggle as it possibly could …_

_She shook her head to clear her thoughts, entranced by the vision of the lake between the trees. She continued searching … there was the feeling again. In its intensity, it almost brought her to her knees. She never knew there could be so much pain in the world._

_She jumped up and ran along the shore, around the lake, until she reached a spot of reed. There, clearly visible in a sharp contrast to the glossy lake, was a bright, beautiful snow-white swan, lying partly in the water, among the reeds._

_Never in her life had she seen anything more beautiful, and at the same time so heartbreakingly sad. Its left wing was completely torn, feathers floating on the water like little snowflakes, others dyed ruby red, for the swan laid there bleeding, from countless gashes all over its body._

_Never again would the swan glide majestically over the water, like she had seen it so many times before. Never again would it rise up high into the sky, flying freely, fast as the wind. There was not enough life left; she felt its essence in her mind, slowly waning, fading into nothingness. It didn't even have the strength left to keep its neck up, the head simply rested on a patch of moss, exhausted and still. Only the small eyes seemed to beg her for help, and she so dearly wanted to, though she didn't know how._

_What a cruel thing to do to such a pure animal, almost as if something had tried to rob it of its beauty by disfiguring and defiling it, and yet, even in death, the magical aura of peace and beauty was not gone, but more present than ever._

_No! She pushed these thoughts away. She could not let it die, she had try - had to help …_

_She kneeled beside the swan and plucked a bit of the Bluemoss, pressing it onto the open wounds, as she knew it had minor healing abilities and stopped bleeding. She tried summoning her magical energy that she only just had started learning to use._

_Waíse Heill!_

_In her mind, the essence flickered. The pain rushed through her, she gasped; but she needed to know where the swan was hurt to make it better, she couldn't let go._

_A small wound on the breast started to heal itself, though it wasn't nearly enough, and she didn't know any other spell to heal, so she said the words again and again, each attempt more desperate than the one before._

_Waíse Heill!_

_Waíse Heill!_

_The pain it brought to the swan was nearly unbearable to her, she felt the tears hot on her cheeks, and the magic rushing out of her to do her bidding, and yet it was no use. The time came, when the swan moved its head for the last time, and since she was still connected with it, she felt its dying in all clarity. The moment when it took its last breath. The moment its little heart fluttered and halted. The moment she stopped sensing it, the moment it stopped feeling pain._

_She hadn't cried since Evandar's funeral, not when she fell from a tree and sprained her ankle, and not when her mother chided her so often for not behaving like a princess these days._

_But now, fresh tears streamed down her face, and sobs racked her small frame, as she sat down by the edge of the lake. The feeling of loss, loss of a life, so privately witnessed, stood above all else. She had tried as hard as she could, tried all that she knew, and it still hadn't been enough. Even more, her desperate attempts to heal it with magic hadn't made it all better, but only added to the swan's pain. Instead of helping it, like it had begged her to do, she had only prolonged its suffering._

_She felt the cold and uncaring touch of the hard, gnarled hand that was reality for the first time. It was a harsh lesson of life to learn, even if she barely began to realise it. Not every broken thing could be fixed, not everyone could be saved. Magic was not all-powerful._

_At times, one had to push one's feelings aside, or even act against them. And there were situations in which death was more merciful._

Arya's hair was streaming behind her openly, like a banner in the air. She had her legs fastened on Saphira with the leg-straps, and her arms around Eragon's waist. Deep down below, Saphira's shadow jumped over rocks and bushes, as they were flying fast through a narrow green valley, with snow covered mountaintops around them, blinding white in the sun.

Farthen Dûr had been left two days ago, bright and early; even before the dawn had fully broken, and Arya was exceptionally glad to be away from the glum atmosphere that had reigned the dwarven city. She would have admitted it to no one, but all the crying and mourning dwarves made her uncomfortable. She didn't know how to handle it, it was too much emotion, too openly displayed. It made her feel strangely awkward, it was the reason she disliked funerals, be it human, dwarf, or even elfin. Everyone around her was so out of control.

But now, as she sat on Saphira's back, all that was gone, left behind in the City of Stone or maybe down on the earth beneath. Flying was an exhilarating experience; it made her feel more free and alive than she had for a long time.

Inadvertently, her thoughts turned to the source of her raised spirits, below her, and the person she held onto in front of her. _Saphira and Eragon._ They had come a long way. Not even ten moons had passed since Saphira had hatched, and yet the difference between now and then was every bit as great as the difference between human and elves, as they said.

_An apt comparison, considering what happened_, Arya thought, amused with herself.

From a somewhat weak human boy and an inexperienced dragon, they had grown to be a valuable asset in her folk's and the Varden's fight against Galbatorix; and she recognised them so.

She remembered well that this hadn't always been the case.

When she spoke to Eragon for the very first time, on their desperate journey to Farthen Dûr, his attempts to converse in the Ancient Language had been clumsy, and his mind had felt simple and rough.

Once she had recovered from the poison enough to think clearly, yet not enough to rise from her bed, she had spent long hours thinking about the both of them. It had helped her to stay calm, because lying in her bed, even if it was for just two days, slowly being nursed back to health by the healers, made her feel useless, helpless, and, above all other, weak.

The Rider and his dragon had occupied her thoughts then, helping her to keep clear of that all too familiar darkness that crept around the edges of her mind. She spoke with Ajihad a few times, and began asserting the new situation, as was her task as an ambassador.

She had had her doubts immediately once she learned of the race of the new Rider. It seemed such a waste to have a gift so great bestowed upon someone so … human. It seemed as if all their hopes would have to be laid to rest - how could this boy possibly be what they so despairingly needed? There simply wouldn't be enough time to turn him into a Rider strong enough to defy Galbatorix. Even more, it wasn't sure that he _ever_ would be able to, even with all the time in the world.

She had almost begun questioning the choice of the dragon, and even said as much to Ajihad.

But he had shaken his head, and she remembered his words well.

"For seventy years now you have been a most valuable counselor for the Varden's cause, for my predecessor's cause and later mine. So maybe it is only the nature of things that there would come a time when the roles are reversed. In this one instance I believe you are wrong, Arya Svit-Kona. He can be exactly what we need, and maybe he already is - you owe him your life. Brom himself taught him. I spoke with him."

He had looked at her, earnestly, from upon the chair beside her bed.

"So my advice, if you want to have it, is thus: Speak to him as well, and look deeper. You'll see what I mean. Do not judge before that."

So she taken it upon herself to meet him on the sparring field, where his magic and swordsmanship would be put to the test. He deserved that much at least, she was in his debt for saving her life. It was the first time she truly saw him, as she watched him carry out the tasks assigned to him by the unnamed twins. He was a master by no means, neither of magic nor of the Ancient Language, but something in the way he used both reminded her of Brom of Kuasta.

It was this which made her pause and study him for a moment, and decide to claim the trial by arms for herself. And it was then, that he first managed to surprise her. He proved to be stronger and lasted far longer then she would have thought; he was no match for her as no human would be for any elf, and only few elves could match her, but he was much better than any human she had met before.

So she had been wrong, he had proved her so.

And therefore, she had apologised to Saphira for her earlier thoughts, that being nothing less than what the dragon deserved, and herself not too proud to admit it; and offered her her friendship.

Then she spoke with him, and saw what Ajihad meant; he showed a strange mix of an endearing naïveté in some ways, and an unusual inner strength in others.

He was not as jaded and bitter as the humans here with the Varden tended to be, or many of those she met on her journeys throughout Alagaësia; where the tyranny of Galbatorix had left its mark on those that lived in his country, for under his rule, many humans had become just as wrenched as he was. Seventy years she had spent traveling Alagaësia, outside of Du Weldenvarden, and she had seen a great many things; and even if she was barely more than a child by elfin measures, in regards to humans, she was convinced she'd seen it all.

She had seen humans commit atrocities she would have thought unthinkable, fathers turning on sons, brothers onto each other; even violent deaths brought to those that should have been cherished the most, children. No elf had or would ever turn onto one of their own kind in this way, and least of all onto those that were the most innocent of all.

No elf would ever try to force himself onto a female as she had seen it a many times, and experienced herself in Gil'ead. Humans did all that, and more.

During her time with the Varden, she had seen an entire generation of humans being born and die, watched as they grew up from babies to children to old men, watched their lives, their games of power, be it in the Council of Elders, where it was political power on a large scale, or just everyday power, rivalries over money, pride and women.

But in the end, she found that nothing remained; they all died sooner or later, and all their power did them nothing good where they went, and those that they had left behind eventually forgot them, and a new generation came and took their places, and the cycle started anew.

Eragon, though, was different. He had surprised her then, and continued in doing so, like no one she'd met, human or elf, had managed before. Both in good ways and bad; he had risen to the challenge of his training in a way she had not thought possible, far exceeding her expectations once more, and he had been infatuated with her and pursued her with a persistence she again had not thought possible.

Until finally, that one day in her rooms in Tialdarí Hall when he complimented her poem, she had come to realise why: she still saw him the way she did they met for the first time, a human boy, talented and special, but a human boy nonetheless.

But he had changed, again, as he seemed to be doing so often these days; the only constant being the change. And so, she had apologised, again, and from then on out judged him as she would any other elf, for that was what he was now, she had realised; and tried to shove away the implications that came with this realisation.

And haltingly, almost despite herself, she had put more and more hope onto his shoulders, that maybe, just maybe, with his help the war could be won and Galbatorix vanquished; a hope for times when further there would be no hope left, a gleaming beacon of light when the last candle had died, and the world had fallen into darkness.

Never had she felt that more clearly than when he had been missing after the Battle at Du Völlar Eldrvarya, and she wasn't able to find him; yet he returned later once the fog had lifted, beaten, outworn, yes, but alive.

So that was what was leading her up to what she thought of him now: an elf, a Rider, a capable fighter in his own regard, and, strangely enough considering the short time she'd known him, a friend; one of the few she had.

Saphira made a sudden dive, and she instinctively gripped Eragon tighter, before she angrily cursed herself for her reaction.

She touched Eragon's mind, only to find a solid wall preventing her from accessing it. Exasperated, she searched for the weakest point, before piercing through; she was a strong spellcaster, after all, but she realised, surprised, how much of a strain it put on her. Eragon was more adept than she expected.

Hurriedly, before he could throw her out again, she projected her thoughts into his mind.

_Eragon! Don't fight me, it is I, Arya!_

The squeezing sensation that had gripped her receded and she relaxed.

_I am sorry, Arya; you startled me._

_In that case, I apologise as well, Eragon. Only, it is much more reasonable to converse this way than yelling over the wind, don't you think? Your mental defences are stronger than I expected, though._

She felt his surprise and something else, before he succeeded in pushing it away.

_Thank you, Arya. Oromis-elda trained me quite thoroughly, although it seems I am still no match for you._

A bit of amusement filtered through the link, and she smiled a little as well.

_But then, I have yet to meet anyone that is._

His words struck her oddly, he still managed to surprise her, and she didn't know what to think about that. It was a moment before she responded, though once she answered, it was almost reflexively.

_In all the time we were together, you saw me but in situations requiring the few fields I chose to excel in. I am woefully lacking many other skills others would deem to be essential and you would find quite naturally amongst my kind in exchange. I am not perfect, Eragon._

She felt his calm thoughts and feelings float around her presence in his mind, pictures of the past, pictures of her.

_I never said you were._

_You thought it, once._

It wasn't a question but a statement.

_Yes_, he said simply, and she wondered about his newfound candour.

_You were an elf._

One sentence to sum up a hundred reasons, meanings, accusations even - even though she felt what he wanted to convey with his words. There was no accusation in it, it was just a statement, a truth describing the circumstances, nothing beautified, nothing emoted.

Just like her last sentence. Just like she did so often.

That realisation struck her, again; and she thought she detected the tiniest hint in it; an almost-but-not-quite-apology, because of what it made him think of her, but then, he couldn't have known any better, at that time; and no one should have to apologise for what they were.

And so, she didn't forgive him; simply because there was nothing to forgive, not for that. She understood, and what was more, she knew that _he_ understood; and for the blink of an eye, there was a connection between them, far exceeding the one temporarily forged by magic.

An odd silence settled between them and time passed, with only the wind whipping across the elf, the rider and his dragon; the beating of muscular wings, up and down; the last snow-capped mountains, in whose frosty realm they had spent the last two days and nights, slowly falling behind them and leaving rolling hills in front of them and to their left, well on their way to summer - light green with scattered patches of darker green in the distance, woods.

Far on the northern horizon, to their right, was the yellow-brown band that was the Hadarac Desert.

_That wasn't what I was meant, though._

She was pulled from her thoughts, startled, and for a moment had no idea what he was talking about. Matches.

_I was merely talking about your proficiency in magic and your swordsmanship, but I think it is true in more general terms nonetheless. Isn't the match of someone somebody that not only matches the strengths, but also the weaknesses? But you would know more than I about that, I suppose._

Arya didn't answer, and said abruptly: _I noticed Saphira diving earlier, and now we're flying almost at tree height. What is the matter?_

_Saphira spotted some soldiers from the Empire, a league or so ahead. We dived, and put the forest between us and them, so that they would not spot us._

_Soldiers!_, exclaimed Arya, angry with herself for being so lost in thoughts that she didn't notice the hostile forces. _We will have to be careful, then. It would be detrimental for us were we seen._

_We may not have a choice_, said Saphira, who had been silent until now. _Short of stopping and waiting for them to pass, that is. The forest doesn't stretch on long enough for us to outdistance them to a point where they wouldn't see us in front of them. If we both keep our current paces, we meet on the same level once the forest ends._

Arya suppressed an oath. _How many?_

_Two dozens, at least. But it could be up to as much as a hundred, there was no way to tell for sure._

_What do you think, Arya?_ Eragon asked, and she contemplated the situation.

_We should try to discern how many there are. We can't decide what to do without the necessary information._

Eragon nodded, and Saphira turned to the right, flying barely above the tree tops. They landed in a clearing, roughly in the centre of the forest, full of bright flowers. Eragon and Arya dismounted Saphira, who waited patiently for them to reach the ground.

"Saphira will stay," Eragon said, and Arya nodded.

They entered the cool forest silently. It was much lighter than Du Weldenvarden, mostly birch trees and alder that gave off an airy feel, rather than an oppressive one. It was nearly as bright here as outside of the trees, a soft, golden light that seemed to penetrate every nook and cranny, stemming from the rays of sunlight that glittered through the green leaves and painted a thousand shadowy patterns on the floor below.

Eragon and Arya walked side by side. No one besides them was underway in the forest. Arya detected only a few animals; a russet squirrel scurried lightsome over the dry leaves on the ground and up a nearby tree, and the hammering of a woodpecker far away to their right resounded throughout the forest.

Their path led them continually uphill, towards the other end of the forest, when Arya smelled the faintest trace of smoke. She noticed Eragon tensing on her left; he, too, had recognised the typical acrid, pungent smell of burning.

Soon after that, the trees gave way to a dry meadow; they had reached the border of the forest. They crouched in the cover of the last bushes, on top of a hill, from where they had an unhindered view over the land stretched out in front of them. The grassland sloped down and ended on a small village a few hundred feet below them.

And the village was burning.

Orange flames licked almost every building. Billows of inky smoke rose towards the sky, and amassed in a thick, black cloud that began to cover the village. Men, women and children were running frantically between the houses, trying to escape the deadly firestorm, only to get caught in the clutches of the soldiers.

Arya was able to spot those small details in the distance easily, and concentrated on counting the armed and uniformed men.

"There are more than fifty men of the Empire there", she said quietly. "It looks like they'll be occupied in the village for some time; it should be enough for us and Saphira to slip by unnoticed on the other side of the forest."

Eragon didn't answer. She turned to look at him, and found his face rigid.

"No."

Arya raised an eyebrow.

"What will happen, were we to leave them to their own devices?"

"You know that, so why ask?"

He shot her a look. "The village will burn down to the ground, some will get killed in the fire, others by the soldiers, and if there is a rest, we'll find them as slaves on the market in Dras-Leona. You are willing to accept _that_?"

Arya's voice never faltered, it was clear and precise. "In exchange to us being unharmed und still unspotted, yes."

He looked at incredulously.

"We can't let them die!"

She fixed him with a cold glare, her eyes like shimmering shards of green ice, boring into his.

"Yes, we can, if it means an unnecessary risk for our actual task and the future as a whole otherwise. Listen to me, Eragon. We have neither the strength to take them all, nor the time to do so. Trying it anyway would be foolish, and gain us nothing but a high risk of being severely injured in the fight and the very possible chance of at least one soldier escaping and word getting back to Galbatorix concerning our whereabouts.

"We're flying on a direct route to Helgrind, so if his spies were to tell him were we went after the battle, he only needs to follow our path from the Beor Mountains to here and ends up directly at Dras-Leona, awaiting us there. He can't know about our destination. You mustn't get caught. Without you to aid the Varden, all is lost."

More gently, she told him: "Let it go, Eragon. This it what Galbatorix does. Most likely one villager incurred his ire, and he decided to erase the whole town. It's been that way for as long as he has been king, and it will continue to be that way for as long as he remains. It is the reason why we fight, but we can't save everyone."

He looked at her, furious.

"Not everyone, no, but those that are here! You may be willing to condemn a whole village to death, but I'm not. I let it happen once. I'll be damned if I let it happen a second time, not when I'm there and able to make a difference!"

He jumped up from behind the shrubs, and started to run down the hillside.

"Eragon! No!"

But he didn't heed her words. She clenched her fist, angrily, as she watched him running quickly across the meadow, heading straight for first burning farms.

"Barzûl! Eragon, you fool, why can't you listen?"

Arya jumped up as well, and followed him downward towards the burning village. He would need all the help he could get, especially since she hoped he'd been wise enough to tell Saphira to stay out of sight in the clearing. Two elves were unusual enough, but there was only one blue dragon in the whole of Alagaësia.

She recognised the tactic used by the soldiers; she had seen it often enough during her travels throughout Alagaësia. They set the buildings on fire to drive the people out of their homes and cut off most of their ways out. Then they herded them along the only one or two paths still open, directly into the arms of their waiting comrades.

Arya crossed the meadow quickly, but Eragon was fast as well; he reached the first burning house when she was still only halfway there.

She saw the sheets of fire parting, the flames dancing in an unseen wind, making room for him to move through. Behind him, the flames rose anew, and she lost sight of him. She started to run faster.

She arrived soon after him, and didn't bother much with getting the right words together. She simply reached out for her magic and forced it into shape, felt it flowing through her and commanded: "_Vindr!_"

A wind picked up and did as was her bidding; it twirled in a vortex around her, parting the flames on both sides as she stepped through the fire unharmed. The streets in front of her were filled with the same thick, black, smoke that lingered over the city. Even she couldn't see in this place farther than two paces ahead. So instead, she closed her eyes, and the world around her vanished; now purely relying on what she could detect with her mind.

The narrow street held six humans, three were together to her right, one to her left, each seemingly in burning houses. She felt their pain, but concentrated on the other two. Everything else shifted into the background, as she walked straight ahead through the street, with her eyes shut and her mind connected with those of the two soldiers.

They were waiting further ahead, about three paces apart from each other. She guessed that they would be standing on either side of the street, which told her where the street ended, and houses began.

Arya drew her sword, and ran the last part, making almost no sound at all. She reached the soldier to her right, and felt in his mind that he had discovered her. The blow to her hip he planned to strike she blocked before he had even begun to execute it.

She sensed the second soldier running towards her, his sword pointed at her back. She trusted her instincts to warn her about any threat, so she spun around, with a light smile, as she felt her hair whipping around her and the steel of her sword pressed coolly against her palm; remembering her earlier thoughts about flying. Times like these, right here and now, in the midst of a fight, were the other times she truly felt alive.

Her breathing, in and out, light footfalls, and the clanging of their swords meeting, as she blocked the attack … She twisted her blade and felt a deep gash appear on his front, sending him stumbling backwards.

She turned and ducked under an approaching blade, the next blow of the first soldier. She thrusted her own sword upwards, straight to his heart. In a flowing movement, Arya pulled the sword back out, and placed most of her weight on her left foot. She spun back, using her momentum to behead the second one. The whole fight had barely lasted a minute. Then, her eyes snapped open.

Both soldiers lay dead in front of her. The smoke was absent; she turned back and frowned. A few feet from where she stood, the smoke ended abruptly as if it were hold at bay by some sort of barrier.

She reached out with her mind once more, trying to cover the entire village. She brushed against a guarded mind, so Eragon - but, no, she realised, that wasn't him. She smiled grimly. Someone indeed did manipulate the smoke. There was another person proficient in the use of magic here, other than Eragon and her. The dynamics of the fight had just changed completely.

With a few words in the Ancient Language, she layered a couple of wards around her, and was torn about her further course of action. On one hand, the magician was the greatest threat, and consequently the most important target, on the other hand she had to find Eragon, who was quite some ways ahead of her.

She hesitated before she finally went to look for Eragon.

The wooden village houses she quickly passed now were already reduced to a pile of ashes. No ordinary fire burnt that fast; she could feel the lingering traces of magic. And no one was alive in there. A gust of wind travelled down the street and blew up the dust and ashes. It rustled softly in her cloth, but otherwise, there was an eerie silence.

She started to run. The villagers were at the other end of the town, Eragon was there as well.

She never saw the next five soldiers coming, out of a side street. She had no warning, until they had surrounded her, she hadn't felt them. She tried to access their minds and found that she couldn't, something blocked her. With a start, she realised that she couldn't feel Eragon anymore, either.

The first attack from behind impacted in her ward. She felt the loss of energy as it absorbed the blow. She countered it, but never managed to reach them. She raised her left hand, releasing a sparkling green fireball in the size of her fist. It raced towards a soldier, but shortly before it should have exploded on him and blown him out of the way, a purplish shield flared into existence around him and disintegrated the fireball. Apparently, the unknown magician her reacted to the new thread.

Arya cursed angrily. She didn't have the time to play with them, she had to find Eragon, and they had obviously been sent to detain her from doing just that. She slashed her sword a few times across their wards, and sent them stumbling. _Thank the stars that they are all but incompetent_, she thought and jumped through the created opening. They followed her, but could never keep up with her as she continued to run down the road.

At its end, she reached what seemed like the village square. It was full of people. On the far side, a few of the soldiers kept the villagers huddled together, interrogating them. Those that didn't answer to their satisfaction were pulled aside and executed. A growing pile of bodies was attesting to that.

Arya forced herself to look away. In the middle of the square, next to a destroyed well, was Eragon. He was surrounded by at least ten soldiers all the time, and even though there were many lying dead on the ground, there were still at least thirty more. Those that fought him now, however, had the same wards she had detected earlier, and it was obvious that he would lose the fight sometime soon.

Eragon fought with his swords as well with magic, she saw him hurling stone pieces of the broken well-curb at the soldiers. He was trying to bring the magician to drop the wards by overextending them. And it seemed to work. More often than not, a ward fell, and he made short work of the soldier. Yet each time he did, a new man stepped up to take the place of the fallen, and Eragon had to be tiring at some point in the future.

She jumped straight into his battle in an attempt to attract the attention to herself. Her sword sang as it twirled though the air, and soon she was fighting at least ten soldiers herself as well. They pressed onwards, and she had to fall back.

She lost sight of Eragon once more, as she was pushed to the other side of the square and into another road, and fought in what seemed like a stalemate for a long time, as neither side could land any fatal blows; but slowly, more and more men were left without the magical shields, and they were no match for her with their swords alone. Her blade moved in a blur; slashing, twisting; she jumped lightly from place to place with the grace that was common to all elves and made any movement seem so effortless.

Finally, she felt all wards fail completely. She decimated the soldier's ranks fast. Only two men were left, when she felt one of them coming up behind her. She was about to turn around, when he already pulled her towards him. She felt his hot breath on her neck, when he seemed to stop short. His left hand moved upwards, coming to rest on her breasts.

"Eh, Yanneck, ye'll not be believing this. This one's a woman," he called to the other one, who snorted.

"Dream on, Derril. Ye'nly wish it were. Happens te me all the time."

The first groped her harshly, through her breast harness.

"I know what I's feeling. A elf-woman, no question. Must be together with tha' other elf."

The one named Yanneck came closer.

"Really, now? Can 'ave a bit o' fun with her, can't we? Always wanted te try a elf."

"Remove your hand from my body", Arya ordered coldly, and despised herself for the tiniest shiver that went down her spine, as her mind inadvertently had flashed back to blackness and despair in a deep hole in Gil'ead, rendering her mute until now.

"Or I'll do it for you."

Yennick laughed. "Eh, a feisty one. I like 'em that way. More fun, if ye know what I mean."

Derril laughed as well. "Ye will, will ye? An' how's ye wanting te do that, hmm?"

_She's not very … cooperative_. Durza, a few man of the prison guard. _Amuse yourself._ Her lips twisted into a hateful smile, as steel flashed through the air in an arch, from her right side to her left, towards her own body.

Something fell to the ground with a soft thump, and the soldier behind her let out a terrified scream, as he stared at his arm, that no longer ended on his left hand, but instead was gushing red blood.

"Thusly."

Arya was breathing heavier than normal. Her blade had neatly cut off the hand, with just enough élan to accomplish the task but not penetrate any further. Only the smallest imprint was visible on her light leather amour.

The other man bellowed in rage. "Ye cut of Derril's hand!"

He charged, and then everything went dark red, her blade cutting through the air, criss-crossing, stabbing. _No one_ touched her and lived to tell, she wasn't weak, she -

"Arya!"

She felt a hand on her shoulder and whirled around, her sword raised before it met another one that wouldn't yield, with a resounding _clang_ -

It was as if her eyes suddenly snapped open. She stared at Eragon in front of her. He was looking at her.

"He is dead."

Before her feet lay the mutilated body of the one called Yanneck, over and over covered in stab wounds and long gashes; bleeding and almost gutted. Derril was off to her left, whimpering on the ground and cradling his arm stump. It had been decades since she had lost control like that. How much had Eragon seen?

"I …" She straightened herself and lowered her blade stiffly, pushing the dark feelings back into the corner of her mind where they had come from. "Yes."

Eragon continued looking at her intensely but he said nothing, just nodded, before turning towards Derril. He picked him up and carried him back to the village square.

Arya followed him. There were no men from the Empire left. She passed the villagers, who were still cowering fearfully in one corner.

"What's it you want now?" called one of the braver men. "Come to finish what they have started?"

Arya frowned. "I do not seek you any harm, human," she answered. "Why would I want to?"

A woman broke free and threw herself before her feet.

"O fair one, please, I'm begging you! My child is missing; can you tell where it is? Have you seen it?"

The woman looked up at her with hope and a strange faith in her eyes. Arya shook her head, she had checked earlier.

"Rise. There is no more life in this village than what is here. The houses burnt down, and all that was within as well."

She stood up.

"But - but you're an _elf_. You -" her round face brightened. "You can use _magic_." She said it almost reverently. "I've seen you use it, green fire, yes, powerful green flames. Can't you bring him back?"

"No magic can bring back the dead. I'm sorry."

The woman collapsed onto Arya as soon as she had said it, crying and sobbing. Arya awkwardly put her hand on the woman's shoulder. What did she expect her to do?

"I'm sorry."

"My - my only son!"

She tried to pry the woman's arms off of her, wishing the woman would calm down. She and Eragon had to go back to Saphira. They had wasted too much time already.

The woman sagged on the ground, where she clutched Arya's legs.

"Please … is there nothing you can do? How will I be able to live? My husband's been dead long since, my son was tilling the farm …"

Arya looked around helplessly.

"I - no, there is nothing … I can do for you. I'm sorry. I really am."

"More likely nothing you _want_ to do, elf," called the man from before, furious. "You can't trust no one of 'em," he declared. "They say one thing and mean the other."

He came over to the woman. "I'll look for Gert myself, Annila," he said. "The mighty elf can't be bothered."

He darted an irate and somewhat fearful glance at Arya, and started consoling the distraught woman.

Arya was thankful that the woman's attention was diverted from herself, she turned and walked hurriedly over to Eragon, who was talking with the soldier that had attacked her earlier, Derril.

"What was your order? Speak, or I make you."

The man grimaced in pain, noticeably growing weaker from the blood loss by the minute.

"Got a tip from summ'on in the village that 'twas a few men plannin' te join the Varden, aye? King's orders te destroy the village, then."

Eragon whirled around. "A villager, you said?"

"'S what I's sayin', isn't it? How else could we 'ave known?"

Arya had already jumped on top of a six feet high pile of rubble that once was the town's inn, and looked down the road leading out of the town. In the distance a lone person was running, a black dot, clearly visible against the sinking sun. She stretched her awareness, covering the entire village once more. Sure enough, the one guarded mind she had felt earlier was missing.

She stared at Eragon, who had turned up next to her and pointed to the figure that just went out of sight behind the next hill.

"Yes, you got all the Empire's men. But you missed the traitor."

– * –

The walk back to Saphira was spent in tense silence. Arya was still enraged about his rash behaviour, and he seemed equally angry. Whether with her or himself, she couldn't tell. She noticed that Saphira didn't seem very agreeable, either, as they flew a few more miles northwards, to find a safe place to spent the night, away from the village. Her wing movements were jerky and fierce, which made for a rough ride, compared to what Arya had experienced so far.

When they reached the first sand dunes that told of the nearby desert, it was already dark. The dunes were only illuminated by star light, as the moon had not yet risen, and in the dark, they looked like massive black hills.

Saphira landed between two, where a patch of dry, hard grass made for a more comfortable bed than bare sand. Eragon dismounted without a word, and proceeded to unstrap his sleeping mat. Arya watched him, before fetching her own mat.

There was no need to ask why he has chosen to stay the night at the fringe of the Hadarac Desert; the intention was clear. If there was someone searching for them, they could arrive from only one direction. Also, the barrenness with only sparse life made any foreign presence approaching them stand out clearly in their minds.

Neither felt like eating, they just shared some water, before they laid down, the tension still palpable.

– * –

Dawn broke early the next day, when the sun rose blood red above the dunes into the morning's sky, the air clear and cold. Nothing and no one extraneous had troubled their trance-like rest, only yesterday's happenings were still on both their minds, which became evident, when Arya announced over the breakfast in clipped tones: "After what happened yesterday, we can't take the direct way to Helgrind. We could be intercepted there, especially as it would lead us in the vicinity of Urû'baen. We will have to take a more southern route, over Lake Tüdosten, maybe even as far west as Melian, before heading north."

Eragon growled at the mention of yesterday, but said nothing.

Such was the atmosphere in which they spent the fourth day of their journey, flying now westwards, instead of north-west. Arya became increasingly irritated with Eragon, and noticed that he seemed to have long discussions with Saphira as well, as she released puffs of smoke in an equally annoyed way.

Neither had eyes for the beauty that stretched beneath them, the scenery with the light summer's green of the Silverwood Forest, ending on the clear blue expanse of Lake Tüdosten, visible on the horizon, where the golden sun slowly plunged into the water, as dusk settled over the land.

It was here where they stopped for the night when the first stars started to blink in the cloudless sky. They found a place at the westernmost tip of the lake, and while Eragon build a fire, Saphira darted an annoyed look at him, and went to the nearby water, to drink and bath.

As he stalked through their small encampment afterwards, glaring at her, Arya had enough. She drew her sword with her right hand and picked up his, which he had left next to the fire and threw it at him. He caught it deftly with his left hand and stared at her, as she went into a fighting stance, the fine elfin steel of her blade gleaming in the firelight.

"Defend yourself!"

"What?"

"You want to attack me, I'm offering you the chance. It will be no good if there are unresolved issues between the two of us. It can endanger our task."

"I -"

Her sword moved downwards, cutting off his words. Just in time, he managed to upheave his weapon, blocking her blow with the sword still sheathed. A clear metallic clang resounded throughout the encampment as it quivered a little under the strain of her thrust.

The moment Arya released the pressure, Eragon whipped his sword, Nasuada's gift, out of the sheath, and had to immediately spin to his right to ward of the next attack, coming from the outside, as Arya had switched her blade to her left hand. Again, steel met steel. Eragon threw away the sheath, and pressed her sword downwards.

He ducked below her next swing, and used this as an opening to prepare his first attack, still with his left hand. His sword moved like a blur towards her right hip, where it met Arya's in shower of sparks.

"I cannot believe that you truly would have left the villagers to be slaughtered by the Empire," he ground out between gritted teeth.

Arya nimbly sidestepped his next attack, and twirled her blade, for now only blocking him.

"Secrecy was and is more important. We are moving through the heart of Galbatorix's land."

Eragon thrusted forwards furiously in a series of wild blows, seemingly finally releasing all the rage that had built up in him since yesterday, but never reaching her body.

"More important than what?" he challenged. "A village eradicated? Two? A whole city? How many lives equal the importance of our task, of keeping it secret?"

Arya countered with an attack of her own.

"As many lives as there are in the whole of Alagaësia. You know that, Eragon. The scale hangs in a delicate balance - were we to be caught, it would tip in Galbatorix's favour, and all would be lost."

Her blade moved towards his head in a sudden burst of speed.

"This one village would be nothing compared to what the King could do to the rest of the land then, unhindered and unchallenged."

Only a reflex saved him this time, as he parried her blow.

"But we weren't caught and neither truly harmed, we defeated the soldiers easily."

Now Arya started to attack in earnest, glaring at him, and he had to make every effort to counter it.

"Do not insult my intelligence, Eragon, with this ill-conceived statement. I know you have a mind sharper than that."

A blow from the left.

"Oromis-elda would be ashamed, could he hear you speaking. "

A blow from the right.

"No planning or thinking from you helped us win, but luck alone, for those men were ill trained recruits. And the spy is on his way to bring news before Galbatorix, news about two elves that suddenly showed up and fought his men. You defeated the soldiers, and saved a town, but risked Alagaësia."

He hastily scrambled backwards, but the razor-sharp edge still cut a long tear into the clothes over his chest.

"And had you for one moment paused to think and employed what I am sure Oromis-elda taught you, you would have come to the same conclusion: for winning one battle, you risked losing the war."

Eragon countered her hail of blows and attacked her once more. Arya noticed that in his ire, he was using much too much force, although his technique never went sloppy. He was fast, as fast as her. It been years and years since she had been challenged this hard, and she relished it. A deadly dance, where nothing and nobody mattered but the two of them, their speed, their graceful movements.

Her eyes shone in wild felicity, as they sidestepped and twisted, now close to each other, soon further away. Around and around the fire, that provided the light for this beautiful creation of flowing forms and flashing blades. Time seemed to move in peculiar way: at one moment, it was as if it almost stood still, when their blades moved in an arch prior to meeting, the next it flew by, making in impossible to tell how much time really had passed.

Drops of sweat glistened in the flickering firelight on their skin. Eragon moved towards her with reckless abandon, his sword in front of him. The last one to beat her in a sword duel had been Telear, her Master. Eragon had the potential to do so as well; however, that time was not now, as he was too rash and by putting that much power into his blows, he began to tire.

She sidestepped once more, and for a moment, their blades locked in front of them.

"But then, maybe it is one of those things you have to learn the hard way. For all our sakes, I hope you are still alive once the lesson is over."

Eragon gave up all pretence of a defence, and jumped to his left, aiming a blow at her neck, that would've beheaded her. She barely managed to parry it, by spinning inwards at the last moment, muscles straining to hold off the force of the impact on her sword, but in doing so, she now had an opening. She twisted her own blade below his and the cold steel touched his throat.

"Dead."

Eragon stood there, panting, his sword still raised, before he nodded, accepting defeat, and lowered himself onto the ground, next to the fire, where he sheathed his sword. Arya took a seat next to him and studied it.

"You have an elfin blade", she remarked, while sheathing her own. "Ajihad must have gotten it as a gift at one time."

Eragon only sat there and for a long while was silent.

"It was Carvahall and Garrow all over again", he said all of a sudden.

"That village. Did I ever tell you how Saphira and I came to leave Carvahall?"

Arya watched him from the side, his distinct profile, formed as any elf, yet more precise, defined. He was staring into the dancing flames. Shadows flittered over his face as he talked.

"I believe not."

He took a stick and poked absent-mindedly in the embers.

"After I found Saphira's egg in the clearing, I raised her away from our home, in the Spine. More than two months had passed when two of the Ra'zac came to Carvahall, and started asking questions about the egg. When they arrived at our farm, Saphira and I were away. Roran was gone as well, so Garrow was alone. I never had the chance to warn him. He didn't even know about Saphira, he wasn't able to tell them what they wished to hear. So when I returned, he - he … they had blown our home apart, and burned what was left, with Garrow inside. He died three days later."

He said paused for a moment.

"I left the next day, together with Brom, to track down the Ra'zac and get revenge for Garrow's death. Galbatorix, obviously, wasn't pleased that his Ra'zac failed to retrieve the egg or any useful information at all, for that matter. I wasn't there, but from what Roran told me, he sent soldiers together with the Ra'zac to return to Carvahall, some months after I had left. They were there for Roran, to take him, and when the others refused to hand him over, they attacked.

"In the end, would Roran and those that were still alive after the fight not have left the village, the Ra'zac and the soldiers would have killed them all. As it was, they could only destroy everything that was left behind. Now, nothing remains of Carvahall but ashes and dust. I scryed it."

He turned his head and looked at her.

"They erased the whole village and killed as many people as they possibly could, because one of them had incurred Galbatorix's ire. Me."

Arya looked back at him. It made sense in a way, she supposed. She sighed and said nothing. She doubted he'd want to hear her saying she was sorry. Pity was useless. Instead, her fingers twirled a few strands of her black hair in an uncharacteristic display of distractedness, while she watched the small yellow flames darting between the logs.

"I was born one year before the Fall, as you may know," she then said, just as suddenly as Eragon before, without looking up.

"We place the beginning of it on that cursed when day Galbatorix came to Ilirea and stole his dragon, and it ends with the defeat of Vrael, almost five years later. In between lies only death and madness, countless battles, where we fought bravely on the side of our allies and lost countless of our kind. Before the Fall, there were more than twice as many elves in Alagaësia. I believe Oromis told you about that, or mayhap you read about it."

Eragon inclined his head. She felt it more than she saw it.

"Then you know about the battle on the plains of Ilirea. I was five at the time. It is the first and only memory I have of our former capital …. Urû'baen is but a pale shadow of former Ilirea's beauty. So much has been lost during the years … Even if it had not been our capital for hundreds of years already by the time of the Fall, it was still our city. Urû'baen no longer is."

Lost in thoughts, she became silent, but then shook her head and continued.

"But regardless, at that time, it was a stronghold against Galbatorix's craze, and once more, for a final time, many elves populated in the city, including King Evandar, my father; and my mother and I. We were under siege, and the situation was dire. The only chance we saw was in making a sally. I stood on the turrets of the citadel and watched as Evandar died on the battlefield at the gates of Ilirea, by the hands of Galbatorix himself. I lost my father when I was five."

She glanced at him, and found his eyes studying her face. Green met brown. Once more, Arya felt he understood, and knew that he knew that she did as well; there was no need to explain any further.

"Do not presume that I do not care, Eragon. My own Ra'zac is Galbatorix himself. So you see, I do understand. But so must you. No one can fight everyone at the same time, not even you and I."

Arya went silent. She had no intention to say more. She rarely told as much to anyone. The silence stretched, but no longer tense, but companionable, as both stared into the glow, lost in thoughts, memories of the past.

The fire blazed up, as a light breeze swept over the encampment, already carrying along the warmth and smells of summer, which had begun, this far south.

"Both were good men," Eragon said finally quietly. Then he sighed.

"I feel I have to apologise, and thank you. I made a mistake in running headfirst into the battle in the village. You are quite right, Oromis taught me better. Always think before acting. Now there is spy underway to carry word to Galbatorix about what happened, and I'm the one to blame. Saphira wasn't too happy with me, either."

The blue dragon came stomping across the encampment, scales still glistering with pearls of water that shone like little diamonds.

She released a puff of smoke.

_I must have told him that for ten times at least by now. What happened that he suddenly agrees?_

_Nothing, Saphira_, said Eragon, before Arya could answer.

Saphira snorted amusedly. _If you say so. If I was a lesser creature, I just might get offended that you realise what I've been saying all the time as soon as I am not there to tell you. Luckily for you, I'm a dragon._

Arya smiled at her words, as Saphira nudged Eragon with her nose. _But either way,_ _I'm glad you're alright now, Little one._

Saphira curled up a few feet away, and Eragon became serious.

"I would understand if you'd deem it too dangerous for us to continue now."

Arya thought about it for a moment, before she answered.

"As yet, we are free. We have to reckon with an ambush at Helgrind, but that was always a possibility, albeit the chances were much smaller. Still, if we expect there to be an attack, we can prepare ourselves, which leaves the odds still bad, worse than I would have wished, but not overly much so. I do not believe Galbatorix himself will be there. As for Murtagh … you said you could best him. Maybe the time has come to try."

Eragon nodded slowly.

"Maybe it has. So we will continue on our journey."

He took a breath.

"And then I have to thank you, for coming after me, when I left you behind on the hill. You came, even when I went there against your express wishes, when you didn't have to come. You fixed the mistake I made. Without you, I would have lost the fight, eventually."

"Me going after you was never in question, Eragon," she said, almost sternly.

"Still, if there is anything I can do to make amends …"

Arya watched him closely for some time and wondered what he would be thinking at this moment.

"Promise me you won't take any more unnecessary risks," she said finally.

He looked back at her, questioningly, and she hesitated for what seemed like a small eternity, before she quietly added: "_Wiol eka._" For my sake.

The glowing logs next to them crackled and sprayed smouldering sparks into the night, and she saw his eyes widen a bit, almost imperceptible.

His voice was strangely rough as he answered.

"_Wiol ono_."

* * *

Gah … Writing characters is my forte (or at least I'd like to think so), but battles and action … not so much. And I don't know the first thing about sword fights, so I apologise if you have to suspend your disbelieve there … Ah well, I'm trying to improve. Tell me what you think, about the fights and the rest?

I'd love you to pieces if you leave me a review.

Next chapter: **Helgrind**. Check my profile for updates on the progress, if you like.


	3. Helgrind

**Disclaimer:** And still, nothing is mine.

**A/N:** Well, it's been ages, Brisingr is out, and my story is now officially AU. I don't mind; in my head, it always has been. I've got most of it plotted out, so the chances that I'll use something from Brisingr are virtually non-existent, but then again you never know. The mindful reader may find a few references that made it into this chapter, but it is mostly about places in Alagaësia as well as names of spells; so no real spoilers, either.

I still haven't finished Brisingr, as I promised myself I would do the chapter first, so hopefully I'll find the time to finish it over the course of the next week. What I read so far, however, I liked. Two things stood out; the wonderful, wonderful conversation by the camp fire, and Eragon telling Roran what I wrote in my very first chapter: with whom can he be together, now that he is immortal? Reading it in Brisingr was a very nice surprise.

**In** other news, I'm working now with a Beta, so praise the wonderful _**Social Bunny**_ for going over the chapters and answering patiently every last of those strange questions regarding the English Language I came up with. Without her, the quality would be noticeably lesser.

Also, the first two chapters have been edited and reposted; mostly for grammar and spelling, but I changed the timeline a bit; so that now, this chapter is set at day six after they left Farther Dûr, instead of day five. I realised as I recalculated the distance that it would take at least two days to leave the Beor Mountains behind, not just one; and so I added it, but it really changes nothing in the chapter itself, other than that everything now happens one day later.

**Well,** about this chapter. Originally, it contained much more, but it simply would have become too long. I split it after I realised I would end up with over 20k words, so there is now one additional chapter to the story. It keeps getting longer and longer, and that was part of the reason it took so long to get the chapter out, because I had to adjust things.

If there are some people out there who care to know, when I wrote about Helgrind and its walls, I did it with the Eiger North Face in mind. Not so much because the Eiger (in the Swiss Alps) looks like Helgrind (it really doesn't), but because I needed something to base my descriptions on, and the North Face is one damn impressive wall. Almost 6,000 feet from the base to the peak, more or less vertical rock; it makes you feel really small (I was there once).

**Finally,** I wrote a little Oneshot called _**Reflections**_. It is a companion piece to _**Flawed Perfection**_; it describes the scene where Eragon made the Fairth of Arya in Eldest and a bit more from her POV. Give it a try, if you like, it contains a (small) spoiler for the next chapter of FP. I'll stop rambling at once, but just a short thank you to everyone who reviewed. I responded to everyone I could; I love to read your comments, even if it is just a short note. Thanks!

**3. ****Helgrind**

_Ten-year-old Arya sat on a bench in the hut, below an assortment of smithy tools on the wall, swinging her legs back and forth. The only source of light was the flittering glowing red light of a coal fire and the spraying sparks, as the hammer descended onto the anvil and the white-glowing metal, again and again, with an uncanny speed, filling the air with a constant ringing._

_Watchful green eyes followed Rhûnon, as she finished another part of the tool, lifted the still glowing flange with her tongs and placed it besides other parts similar in nature. Only then, she covered the coals __with a grated lid, and turned towards Arya._

"_Don't you ever get tired of sitting here and watching me work?" she snapped._

_Arya grinned at her, unperturbed by the brusqueness of the question, swinging her legs a bit stronger._

"_Do you ever get tired of fo__rging, Rhûnon?"_

_The lines on her old face deepened, as she frowned and glared at Arya._

"_Hmpf. But surely you have other things to do. Everyone always has other things to do. Flittering here and there, jumping, smiling and speaking in a long-windedness th__at is only surpassed by their politeness and refinedness."_

_Arya smiled at her rant, but Rhûnon noticed it._

"_That means you as well! Especially you! No elf in the whole of Du Weldenvarden is as annoyingly persistent as you are. Everyone has the good sense__ to leave me in peace, but not you. What do you want?"_

_Arya cocked her head._

"_You could tell me another story. About the Riders and their swords and the world … outside."_

_The last word was whispered._

_The frown turned into a furious scowl, as Rhûnon sat__ down heavily._

"_Do I look like a common story-teller to you?"_

_Arya looked at her, sitting on a stool besides the hearth, her face scribed with lines betraying her age, and she suppressed a giggle, but Rhûnon seemed to know exactly what she had been think__ing, which earned her another glare._

"_Mind your tongue, child."_

_Arya tried and failed to look serious._

"_What business of yours is what happens without the borders of Du Weldenvarden anyway? I know not of another elf who has as much interest in the world__ as you do. Islanzadí certainly doesn't. Are you not content here?"_

"_I love the pines!" she said defensively. Then her eyes started to shine._

"_But think, Rhûnon! All the rest of Alagaësia, outside! Another world, completely different! There must be so much to see, to discover."_

"_Bah! It's full of humans, weak and barbaric, ruled by the most barbaric of them all. Everything that may have been impressive is long since gone. _He_ took care of that. What took a millennium to build, _he_ destroyed in mere years."_

_Arya sat patiently on the bench and listened._

"_But before _he_ came. Long before. When we lived all over the country. What was it like then?"_

_Rhûnon's eyes clouded over._

"_Ah. Before he came, and ruined everything. Well, we did live all over Alagaësia, but you knew that. Not all elves were the same – some lived in the Great Plain, preferring the open space over dusky forests; some even lived in the mountains, carrying on commerce with the dwarves, and tried to gleam their secrets … of course, it took quit__e the crafty elf to do that. Greedy dwarves were guarding their knowledge jealously._

"_Others build cities of stone, grand and a marvel to any passer-by, perfect expressions of aesthetic and harmony. I never found much love in living there for a longer period, though. It was a beauty to behold, by all means, but a dead beauty. Stone is not alive. And so, there were elves, who picked the other extreme, who preferred having no steady home at all, but rather choose to live on the move, today here, tomorrow mil__es away, no two days the with same sight as they slowly moved throughout all of Alagaësia."_

_Rhûnon looked at Arya, thoughtfully._

"_You may have liked that. Yes, yes, I'm sure you would. You are like him in that way, just like him."_

"_Who is it you speak o__f?"_

_Rhûnon scowled at her._

"_Your ancestor, of course. Ithindra"_

_Arya eyes went wide._

"_The last Homeborne? He is no myth? You knew him?"_

"_A myth! Ha, I wish he was here to hear your words," Rhûnon cackled. "He would first drink more than is healthy, afterwards clobber up everyone who named him thus, and finally, when everyone has apologised, proclaim himself a myth for making them! Hahaha!"_

_She calmed down after a while and looked at Arya sternly._

"Of course_ I knew him. How old do you think I am?"_

_Sh__e smiled at Arya's mystified face._

"_I am quite old, my dear. I'm a Shipborn. Ithindra was a young elf when I was a mere child, back when we sailed and sailed."_

_Arya hung on to her every word._

"_The sea! What is it like?"_

"_I thought you wanted to hear ab__out Alagaësia? But very well, the sea. It is wild and vast and free … aye, you may find freedom there, like you would in no other place, bare the sky. Then, it's ever-changing; blue and green, calm one moment, terrifying the next; and always unpredictable.__ Very much like a wild dragon. A beautiful creature, oh yes, but a terrible force and the ruin of all those who dared trying to rise above it, disrespecting it or challenging it._

"_But the greatest threat is not that it may devour your body and limbs. No, __it enfetters your heart, forever and ever, with chains stronger than my Brightsteel. Once you see it, and it enchants you; twice you see it, and it binds you; thrice you see it, and it keeps you … it never stops calling."_

_Rhûnon looked dreamily into a time and distance far beyond Arya's scope; her voice faraway, as though reciting an old memory; a tale, a poem._

"_I feel thou, even now; now, when it has been many, many years, since I last laid my eyes upon thy blue, whitecapped waves, and listened to thy ch__oir: standing on the Rocks of Bryggja, the roaring surf below and the lamenting seagulls above …" _

_There was silence, for a while. Only the hearth sprayed forth a few sparks, while Arya tried to ingrain every word deep into her memory, so she would never forget it._

"_It sounds so very beautiful," she whispered finally. "I wish I could see it."_

_Rhûnon looked at her._

"_And somehow, I have a feeling you will."_

_A sudden movement made Arya look up. Someone was standing in opening of the hut, and she knew the form well._

"_Mother!"_

_She quickly tried to hide her guilty expression; however she knew Mother wasn't fooled._

"_Arya."_

_She sounded so … neutral. Arya knew she was in trouble now. She always was when Mother used that tone._

"_May I be so bold as to inquire__ why Master Gwaën explained to me that you failed to return to him after your meal, and I find you in a smithy instead?"_

_Arya looked to the ground and said nothing. After a brief pause, Queen Islanzadí turned towards Rhûnon. Rhûnon, however, didn't spare __her a single glance; she was only looking at Arya. Amusement shone on her face._

"_You ran away from your lessons, child?"_

_Now Arya looked up and pulled a face at her._

"_Because it's _so_ boring," she burst out. "Politics, etiquette, manners, names, dates …I much prefer your stories."_

"_Why now … is that all you learn?"_

_Arya glowered at the wall next to her._

"_Yes, it is! Because everyone says I'm too young to learn fighting and more magic!"_

_Islanzadí put her hand on Arya's shoulder._

"_Come now, Arya. Maste__r Gwaën has generously enough agreed to continue your lessons, we shall not keep him waiting. You will have to work longer, to make up for the time you spent here. And we do not want to trouble Rhûnon further."_

_She led Arya towards the bay by her arm and __only when they had reached the doorway, Rhûnon looked at her Queen. "Islanzadí."_

_She didn't wait for her to fully turn around, but continued at once. "You have changed since Evandar's death, and not for the better. You fear to lose her, as well? Pay attention so your actions do not become the cause of the very thing you seek to prevent. There are more ways for that than the one that is obvious. You should know."_

_Queen Islanzadí had frozen at the name, the cherry-red lips pressed together in a straight lin__e. And even though she concealed it at once, she paled at the words which followed; eyes flashing, before her face was mask-like, as though sculptured from perfect white marble, blank and cold._

"_A bird will be a bird. Caging it is a cruel thing to do, the__ reasons notwithstanding. Remember that, Islanzadí."_

_It took her seconds of a deathly quiet silence, before she found the words to respond, and even then she only answered in the most formal of tones._

"_You always spoke your mind, Rhûnon-elda."_

_But Rhûnon had long since turned her back on her, picking up her hammer, uninterested in whatever she would have to say in return. And so the clanging filled the smithy once more, swallowing Islanzadí's last words of admission whispered to the empty room before her__._

"_Changed … we all changed."_

The next two days were, in Eragon's opinion, the very best of their journey. This was the first time Saphira and he had flown together for a time that long, when it was them and just them, without having to slow down for others to be able to keep up; and he took a liking to it.

It was the epitome of freedom, he found; to be able to go wherever you liked, with nothing to hold you back, the look firmly turned ahead and never behind. With a dragon as their transport, as opposed to horses or even walking, the miles streaked away beneath them. The weather agreed with them, the sun shining brightly as to smile upon them in good fortune.

And once again, it struck Eragon how little it was you truly needed. Something to eat at day, a mat to fall asleep on at night, watching the twinkling stars above; a sword to fight and clothes to wear. Really, he thought one day, there _was_ not much else you needed. Gold, jewels, money … many a man had so much, yet was so unhappy with that.

Then there was Arya. After their argument, he felt closer to her than ever; not only sure in the knowledge that they could argue and reconcile later, but also with another glimpse into what her life was like. Their close proximity added to that; he saw her in different situations and learned how she acted and thought. Ever so slowly, he began to get to know her, really know her, and he smiled in embarrassment when he remembered his thoughts about her, back when he first met her, and even later, in Ellesméra.

They woke up in the mornings together, then spent the day on Saphira's back, and in the evenings shared tales on a fire. Arya never again spoke about herself, except for one time when they had their now daily sparring matches, and he never asked; even though he had many questions about things he'd seen and things she'd said. But she told him other things, tales every elf knew, like the one of Nuada and the sea.

It was a true joy to spar with her, for him, and as far as he could tell, for her as well. And it was one comment that, even if he didn't show it, left him glowing with praise. After a fight ended on a draw, Arya regarded him for a long time before she said the one thing he now treasured deep inside him: "You are a swordsman of a talent I have rarely seen. Hard practice of nearly two decades made me become as good as I am now; you, however, achieved this in less than two years."

So despite the new, additional threat of the spy on the loose hanging over them like an imminent thundercloud, these two days were two of the happiest in his life; and the spy and the battle at the village were oh-so-easily forgotten, the temptation great to push it all to the back of the mind. With the pure joy of flying, not much else mattered; they were three companions together on a journey throughout the picturesque heart of Alagaësia, without a care in the world, no tyrant, no soldiers, no threats: when the grassy plains stretched on and on, seemingly to the rim of the world and beyond; and they flew and flew, chasing the blue horizon.

Often times, even though they could see for miles, not a single body was in sight; and it seemed like they were the only people alive in the world – their own world, a separate, perfect little world, where the war was far, and it was just the three of them, nothing and no one else; and Eragon didn't want it to end. And somewhere deep within, a wish took form, to one day fly and fly and fly...

_When the war is over, we will do just that_, he decided. _We'll fly all over Alagaësia, visiting all the famous places: Vroengard, where the Riders of old lived, Kuasta, where Brom lived, all the miracles of nature, the wild magic in Aroughs and Eoam, yes, we'll even cross the Hadarac Desert to see what is on its other side!_

Saphira was infected by these thoughts as well, and so it fell to Arya to discover what would herald the start of the end of their shared happiness, for a very long time to come.

– * –

_Eragon! Look ahead!_

They were flying north, now nearing the ancient ruin of Edur Ithindra; having turned from a western direction once they'd passed Melian, but avoiding the town itself by a good three leagues, to lessen the risk of being spotted. After their encounter with the Empire at the village of Rak, they had changed tactics: they were flying at an altitude so high that any casual observer on the ground would mistake Saphira for a bird. The air was quite cold and thin in these regions, but both Eragon and Arya were able to cope reasonably well; better than humans would, and of course Saphira didn't have any problems at all.

Yet even so, as they didn't need anything from Melian, they evaded the city, keeping to the country, where the population was sparse and the villages far and few between.

The view from this high up was a true sight to behold. They were able to see the dark red dot that was Melian far behind them, at one end of the fruitful green hills, as well as Belatona on the other end; nearer, in the west, at the southernmost end of the Leona Lake.

For awhile now, first in front of them, later also to their left, the blue expanse of the lake had been visible, glittering in the sun, with specks of white dotted here and there onto the surface; boats with sails shining in the light. The shore on the far side retreated farther and farther from where the Jiet River poured out of the lake, until it vanished out of sight in the slightly hazy day; on the north-western horizon, where the sky touched the water in a line as perfectly straight as if drawn with a giant's ruler.

Beyond it, Eragon knew, lay the first foothills of the southern Spine, and even if it was far to his former home, as the mountains bearing this name stretched almost across the half of Alagaësia, he felt a faint feeling of melancholy, just knowing it was there; the dark impermeable woods he used to hunt in …

But before them, in the direction into which Arya was pointing, something disrupted the light hilly country, as well as the bright, sunny day. A jagged and twisted rock rose straight out of the earth, and directly above its four peaks, a dark, pitch-black bank of clouds began to gather, looming ahead. And it moved as well, in the most peculiar way, _towards_ them, even though they had been flying comfortably with a warm southerly current from behind.

_We have to land Eragon! We cannot even hope to fly above those clouds. It looks like they tower at least another two or three miles high!_

As if to underline Saphira's statement, the wind, which had been blowing steadily until now, changed without any warning at all and came in a strong gust from the side. She was hard pressed to counterbalance the sudden crosswind. Her wings caught the gale, tossing her around like a child's toy.

Another gust came from the other side like a physical blow, and Saphira started to tailspin.

_Saphira!_

She completely folded her wings and nose-dived; using her tail like a rudder in an attempt to break out of the uncontrolled spinning. Eragon screamed at her in her mind, clutching the saddle as strong as possible. The world was blurring in front of his eyes, the wind howling in his ears like a mighty raging beast. He felt Arya's hands on his waist, the ochre earth came closer and closer, there was a hard blow, and everything went dark.

– * –

Groggily, Eragon opened his eyes and saw only dark yellow. He tried to clear his head and recall what had happened, straightening himself; and the yellow turned into dark grey to his right. One moment they were high up in the sky, and now – he was still sitting in the saddle … the saddle was still on Saphira's back … and Saphira was still – Saphira was lying on her left side, like a whale stranded by the tide! The grey was in fact the sky _above_, as he was hanging sideways on Saphira over the sand. In a rush, the memories came flooding back. The wind – the dive – and –

A sudden pain shot through his left leg, but it wasn't his.

_Saphira! What happened?_

For a terribly long moment, there was only silence. Eragon searched frantically for her in his mind, but her presence was still there. Then she answered.

_We crashed._

Her voice held a humorous undertone.

"That isn't funny, Saphira," Eragon snapped out loud. "You broke your leg."

_You'll heal it in no time, Little One, _she said soothingly._ It could have been much worse. How is Arya?_

Awkwardly, Eragon turned his head around, to see Arya moving slowly behind him.

"Arya?"

"I am perfectly fine. Tend to Saphira."

He loosened the straps and promptly fell the last few feet down into the sand, headfirst.

"Ooof."

Ignoring the short, clear laugh, which he surely must've had imagined, Eragon shook his head angrily and spit out a few grains of sand. He moved to help Arya, but she was already crouched on the ground, having gotten off of Saphira without any help and with much more dignity than him.

Mending Saphira's broken leg took some time, but luckily, they had already reached the narrow patch of semi desert following Dras-Leona to the south, which Eragon remembered from his escape with Brom; so the chance of anyone passing by and spotting them was very remote.

As Eragon had noticed when he first opened his eyes, the sun was gone; the clouds had reached them, having crossed the distance between Helgrind and them at a breathtaking speed. And it didn't stop here, they moved further onwards, swallowing the bright daylight completely, leaving only dusky twilight behind.

The wind was still whipping across the land, blowing up the sand which pelted them and made the stay unpleasant. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, interspersed with flashes of lightning. Nobody needed to say out loud what they all knew; that was no ordinary weather.

"Can you walk, Saphira?" Eragon asked finally, when he and Arya had finished some bread in silence. With nothing else to do, they had used the forced break, in which Saphira recovered from the crash she had borne the brunt of, to eat something in the lee of her body.

She rose experimentally, a bit unsteady at first, but she was able to put weight on her healed leg.

_It'll be alright._

Eragon looked at her concernedly, but she gave him an encouraging nudge with her snout, and together, the three of them started to walk towards the black centre of the cloud, miles ahead.

They evaded the road, and as the sun peaked from behind the clouds for a last time, just above the horizon to their left, dipping into the endless blue of the lake and inflaming sky and water alike in a deep crimson, they left behind the semi desert. To the east of Dras Leona stretched open heathland, and that was where they were heading; in the day's dying light of the bleeding clouds, ominous and foreboding.

The weather got worse, the further they walked. From ahead of them, they heard the wind howling. Lightning flashed now constantly, and soon, it stated to hail. They plodded on, the hailstones crunching under their boots, and for once, the unnatural bad weather worked in their favour, as everyone had hastened themselves to seek shelter, in their houses or simply huts, and they met not a single person on the Grey Heath or Mírnathor, as the elves called it.

The sun had settled completely, leaving behind a pitch black, starless night, as they reached the base of Helgrind, staring at the imposing rock. It was illuminated by flashes of lightning that bathed everything in a sharp, glaring light for the blink of an eye, only to plummet everything into perfect darkness moments later; leaving behind dancing afterimages in the mind once the light faded and the cycle started anew a second later.

Helgrind stretched for more than a mile upwards, raising abruptly out of the plain, to finally lose itself in the thick clouds that loomed overhead. It was simply there, for no visible reason, in midst of flat land all around; as though something had placed it there. The very nature seemed to object its presence; the wind howling and moaning around the mountain and in holes in the peaks. This was the sound they had heard from afar, so mighty were the raging elements.

But in the end it was futile, a senseless rage. The rock was as strong as it had been for millennia, bare and black of colour. But it was more than that, Eragon thought; he could see even in this darkest of nights, and he could see Arya next to him, and Saphira behind him, however, whenever he tried to look more closely at the mountain, it seemed to flee his eyes. It simply was … _black_. There was no other word for it, and that was all it was.

_This stone –_

Arya nodded.

_Yes. I see it as well._

They had switched back to talking with their minds, so as to not be forced to compete with the wind in volume. He stretched his mind, in an attempt to feel what was inside, the Ra'zac, perhaps, or even Katrina, for he was still not completely certain that she was here – it _was_ just a guess, albeit a reasonable one – but just a few feet in front of him he encountered _nothingness_. It was a starless hole in the universe, a tear in reality, dark, empty and cold – he was teetering on the edge, falling inside – _cold_, so cold … falling, deep, deep, deep …

And suddenly there was warmth in midst of endless night, burning brightly, a blazing light – _Eragon!_

With it came a melody, from all around; wild and of an overwhelming intensity, but at the same time, wonderful and sweet – and he _knew_, if the fire's flame could have been heard, it would have sounded like this. The nothingness fled it; he moved towards it – it seemed so beautiful, silver and clear – he felt himself being pulled back –

"Eragon!"

He opened his eyes, staring into the flame, a clear, bright – silver? He blinked. No, not silver, it was green. Where did the thought about silver came from? It was a clear green, as clear as – Arya's eyes? Feeling the light touch of hands on both of his cheeks, he noted that his head was resting on something soft, and he suppressed a blush, glad that it was night.

"What –?"

He switched back to speaking through his mind, feeling Arya's consciousness already directly next to his, as the wind ripped the words from his lips as soon as they left them.

_What happened?_

Before she could answer, however, the shadowy silhouette of Saphira's snout appeared in the darkness over his head, and she snapped out: _Don't ever do that again! You were here but not – it felt like half of me was missing. Never leave me like that again! _

Eragon could feel her fear; it was a primal, most basic fear, and he knew it well. It was the fear of being separated, of being all alone when there should be two; a fear that left you mad in desperation and panic, clawing at yourself just to get rid of –

He grimaced and tore himself away from his thoughts. They were not his, they were Saphira's. She had pushed it over the bond they shared. And that meant it was but a pale shadow of what she really had felt.

He pushed himself out of Arya's lap as fast as he could, hugging Saphira's warm neck.

_I'm so, so, sorry Saphira! I have no idea what happened, but I'm here. I'm here._

He felt her tongue on his cheek, wet and rough, and her voice in his mind still with an underlying tremor, suddenly sounding very small; reminding him that despite how old and wise she always appeared, she still was not six months old, and furthermore, that without and apart from him, she still was very much alone.

_What happened was us being separated, completely. One moment you stood here, and the next you were still here but gone – gone …_

He sent her reassuring feelings, trying to convey all the love he felt for her, and felt her gratitude in return … _I won't leave you, Saphira._

… _and you were falling backwards. Arya caught you. Where did you go?_

Eragon tried to make sense of it all.

_It has to be Helgrind_, he said to both of them. _I was trying to find Katrina or the Ra'zac inside with my mind, but all there was was – nothingness. What did you do, Arya?_

There was the tiniest pause. _Nothing of importance. I led you back._ And despite her speaking in the Ancient Language, as they had done on their entire journey, he felt that her short answer was not true; but he refrained from asking, still haunted by the sound of a beautiful argentine flame.

Eragon walked over to the rock in front of him, tentatively stuck out his hand to touch the stone, and shuddered. It felt cold, but somehow, not cold beneath his fingertips, but cold _inside him_. The same coldness he'd felt only moments before. As soon as he realised this, he recoiled as if stung.

_What _is_ it?_

It was too dark to see any details, so he took a bit of his magic.

"_Brisingr hvítr_."

A pale, white werelight popped into existence next to him, illuming an area a few feet wide, of yellow dried grass, heath and moss; but wherever the light touched the base of Helgrind, it was as if it simply wasn't there, as if the black rock sucked it away, deep into the mountain.

In Eragon's magical light, Arya was regarding it closely, but doing so without looking at it directly.

_It is – different. We should have a look around._

Arya, Eragon and Saphira set off along Helgrind's base, the werelight trailing behind, but to him, one place was like the one before and the one after.

While inspecting a part that was just as _black_, Arya asked: _Do you know something about it, Eragon? My knowledge extends not much further than it being there. Unlike as for you, it never held much interest for me. However, if we are to venture inside of it, we need to know as much as we can._

He shook his head, watching Arya move back and forth and raising her hand. "_Naina_."

A soft light bathed the rock in a clearer light.

_Not much beyond what Saphira and I discovered with Brom – most likely, the entrance to the Ra'zac's hiding place is located near the top, as they fly there on their mounts to reach it._

_Nothing about Helgrind itself?_

_Only a name: The Dark Gates. Brom used it, and I found it in several of Oromis' scrolls. I meant to look further into it, but our hasty departure for Surda prevented that._

_I don't know anything useful, either, _said Saphira to both of them._ Maybe we should wait until the clouds have dissipated. I cannot fly you up there at the moment. The up winds are too heavy. It's too dangerous for me; in fact, it is too dangerous for anyone to stay up there._

Eragon craned his neck, and stared up into the black sky, where the dark clouds were rolling and churning, lightning flashing in-between and down to the rock, running alongside of it and over its sharp ridges.

_I'm not sure they will do so in the near future, Saphira,_ he said. _They aren't natural. Do you not think it suspicious that the greatest weakness of the Ra'zac is sunlight, and as soon as we arrive, the thickest clouds I have ever seen remedy exactly that? It was already dark, long before dusk._

And thinking of Katrina, he added: _And dangerous or not, we have no choice, because there is no time. All we can do is to prepare ourselves to the best of our abilities for what we know is to come._

_Well, then, how __**do**__ you propose to get up there, if I am not to carry you? It is a vertical wall._

_We could use magic to levitate us up,_ Eragon pondered.

_It would be a taxing endeavour, and would leave us open to the thunderstorm, for we would have to solely concentrate on not crashing, _objected Arya, now finished with whatever she had done, and her light vanished._ We can climb up just as easily, thus save our strength for any fights or prevent us from being struck by lightning. Do you not see the way up?_

Frowning, Eragon studied the rock from the corner of his eye as Arya had done. This time, the rock didn't shy away from his look. Where he before his transformation would have seen nothing but bare black, straight stone, there now, just like with Orik's puzzle, suddenly emerged a pattern out of the darkness, a possible way up; cracks to place the feet, nooks to grip with hands, almost too regularly to be just random freaks of nature.

_You are right, Arya. It would be quite challenging, of course, and not without risk._

Arya didn't reply. He looked at her and caught her eye, noticing a strange glimmer deep within he knew only too well from himself.

The ghost of a smile stole itself over his face, as she looked back at him, both understanding each other perfectly.

_Wait! Eragon, what is that I feel from you? I – wait, wait, wait. No. You can't possibly want to … even you are smarter than … You want to indeed._

Saphira had followed his train of thoughts, leaving her jaw hanging open in a comical expression.

_Both of you! It is darkest night, storm, tempest, and you want to climb on a mountain? Didn't you just__ estimate it to be higher than one __**mile**__, Eragon? And Arya, what did you just say about the lightning bolts up there, those you now want to climb __**through**__? Did the gale blow what little brain you have out of your skulls?_

_Don't be such a spoilsport, Saphira,_ Eragon said cheerily. _We can always use magic to shield us against the wind and the lightning._

_We have no time to lose, Saphira Bjartskular. Neither for the woman, nor for Eragon. The longer we linger, the more likely we are to be discovered. And after t__he clouds took away the option to fight in sunlight, this night's as good a time as any._

_I declare you both officially mad. Don't come calling me when you get stuck. Do you not remember what happened the last time you tried to climb up a rock face, Eragon__? Really, what is it with two-legged creatures and the need to __**climb**__ on mountains, when magic would do perfectly well?_

Eragon didn't even blink when she mentioned his attempt in Teirm. _Did you never hear the reason to climb on a mountain, Saphira?_

_Which would be?_ she asked warily.

_Why, because it's there!_

He laughed loudly over the wind, and started to prepare their ascent. Everything that was not essential would be left behind. Remembering how he had felt when he had touched the bare stone, Eragon put on the gloves Brom had once bought him. It seemed so long ago … Shaking off the memories, he turned to Arya, who was weaving a final ward around her.

_Does it feel strange to you, when you touch it?_

She extended her hand, placing the palm on the rock.

_It__ is … cold. But not much more than … usual. I will manage._

He shot her an enquiring look, but took her word for it. Saphira was still shaking her head, as he walked over to the base of the entry chimney. At last, the climbing would begin.

_Be careful, Eragon. And you as well, Arya. _

He looked at her fondly._ I will._

Then, he closed her mind to her; not wanting to risk any distractions, as unintentional as they might have been. He needed to concentrate solely on their ascent, and for once, Saphira couldn't help him.

Eragon led off up it front. The ball of light over his shoulder showed a chimney that was nearly vertical. His legs were spread apart, each foot placed against either side of the walls around him. His hands gripped the rock methodically, pulling him up, then dragging his legs up as well, to get a safe stance, and start again with his hands. Arya followed him in a similar way, and slowly, the ground fell behind.

At the exit of the chimney, a slope began, and both moved together in silence. The wind howling around and tearing at them as well as the constant flashing of lightning had long since become a constant companion; to a point where neither perceived it consciously anymore. All had given way to a deep, focused state of concentration, regular breathing, the strong beats of the heart, arm – legs – arm – legs …

They climbed up the slope for almost an hour; it was not very challenging, with many foot- and handholds, but after a while, both noticed the angle steepening and the difficulties gradually mounting, and then, as the first crack awaited Eragon and Arya, the climbing intensified.

Eragon paused for a moment, leant against the rock face, trying to follow the path they were taking further up ahead, but it vanished in smooth blackness just a few feet above; Helgrind didn't part with the knowledge about the way freely.

_Sideways._

Eragon turned his head; looking at Arya, who was leaning against the rock as well, gesturing to her left. Eragon nodded, inadvertently getting a glimpse downwards. He could only just make out the shapeless silhouette of Saphira moving on the ground at the base of the mountain, not much bigger than a tiny bug, a dark spot in a darker night. The darkness prevented him from seeing much further; where Dras-Leona should have been, as well as the lake, was only black night, almost as black as Helgrind. Indeed, it seemed that the darkness was oozing from the stone, bleeding out into the night; it wasn't natural, just like the clouds, and Eragon grew a bit concerned about something that could shroud his sharp elfin eyes.

It was like staring at black cloth. He hadn't felt like this since his times in the Spine. Eragon forcefully tore his gaze away from the blindness and his eyes moved once again up, to the clouds, that had gotten substantially nearer. It would be worse in there.

He followed Arya, who had started move delicately sideways. Suddenly, the edge he had placed his left foot on crumbled, and his foot slipped, hanging freely in the air; almost a thousand feet above the ground. He nearly lost his balance, but clung to his handholds at the last moment. He tightened his grip and tried to find another protrusion.

The lose stones clattered into the deep.

_Eragon?_

_I've got it in hand._

He rested this foot on another patch of rock, and took a few calming breaths, before he moved further across the rock face.

After some time, their progress came to a sudden halt on a pitch directly below the crack. Both were confronted with a vertical wall over eight feet high, which ended on a terrace. Eragon nudged the werelight higher up, but the wall was completely smooth. He stretched, extending his right hand; and was barely able to grip the edge with his fingertips.

Arya's arms were just a nuance shorter than his, but that was enough. He didn't waste any time debating.

_I will go first, then I'll pull you up._

He pulled himself up, using his arms, then tried swinging his leg over the edge, while not losing hold with his hands. For a precarious moment, his weight balanced directly on the edge, between empty air behind him and firm rock in front. But he managed to throw his upper body forward, and landed on the terrace.

Lying prone on the surface, he looked down to Arya, extending his arm to pull her up. She was looking up at him, and for a brief moment, their eyes met; stretching time in a strange way, while he felt her intense gaze weighing on him, searching, questioning. If she was looking for something, he couldn't tell. But then, Arya slowly raised her arm and took hold of his hand. He felt her fingers, cool to the touch, closing securely around his wrist and did the same; lifting her off the rock she had stood on, and soon she gripped the edge with her other hand and pulled herself up under her own strength.

Shortly after, both were sitting on the terrace, taking a small break. Arya nodded briefly at him and he accepted her thanks silently. The place was overhung by a short wall, so it was sheltered from the wind, and for once allowed them to speak out loud.

"How high?"

"More than a thousand feet."

Both were staring into the black night.

"And it's taken us over an hour." At that rate, more than five hours lay still ahead of them.

– * –

After a few more moments, they both rose; and walked out from under the wall, over to the base of the crack. It was quite obviously the way to go; on either side the rock was smooth and black once more, with no chance at all to climb up there.

Climbing through the crack was the most trying task Eragon and Arya had yet encountered, but he relished the challenge. His hands were locating side pulls, his eyes always searching for the next hold and the next step. This was it, he felt; this was climbing at its greatest, mind and body in a perfect symbiosis, moves executed under complete control, because Helgrind demanded no less. It was a direct fight where his life was in his hands alone, his skill and his strength pitted against the black mountain.

This time Arya led on, she was directly above him, her hands gripping rock just as firmly; and he was sure that she felt the same thing. She led them through the crack and over to easier ground at its end. While moving again in a steep traverse over the rock face, the sight became noticeably worse.

They had reached the cloud base.

The thunder seemed to roll around the mountain, feeling almost like a sizeable entity, some kind of wicked beast. And then, the lightning struck. Eragon felt the loss of energy clearly as it impacted again and again at his ward, realising with a jolt that indeed any attempt to fly through it would have resulted in a fall; not because the lightning was dangerous in itself for them, but because it broke their concentration. It was hard enough here, but he remembered the one time he had lifted himself up to the Stone of Broken Eggs, and how it had commanded his complete and unwavering attention.

All around them was now the thick fog of the cloud, preventing them to see much of anything; they were climbing through it, in an endless ramp, for hours; or so it seemed. There was no guessing how far they had come; after the ramp, there was another wall, and after that another traverse … and still, it seemed like they were following a way up.

The lightning struck with more fury than ever, as though enraged that it could do them no harm, and the sight didn't extend any further than to Arya next to him as they traversed over to the bottom of the next pitch. Around them, the rock grew more and more jagged; Eragon hoped it meant that they were finally reaching the upper half of Helgrind. The route wasn't getting any easier, at least; it was twisting and winding, moving sideways as much as up; and more than once they had to climb back down, because it lead into a dead end previously unseen through the thick fog of the clouds.

And once more a vertical wall towered in front of them, overhanging at the end. Eragon stared at it, whishing it would go away, but knowing it wouldn't; this was the way. Every other route had ended in nothingness. But after hours of climbing in storm and bad weather, he'd begun to feel the strain it put upon him. Even he became eventually tired, when additional energy was constantly sapped away by the spells woven around him for his protection, and now yet another wall … the lightning ran over its sharp edges, little blue flames that danced a beautiful but deathly dance, daring him to watch it instead of his hands, trying to distract him from his path.

It was his turn to lead, but he didn't particularly want to. On the narrow ledge next to him, Arya turned her head, questioningly. Eragon was reluctant to admit his tiredness in front of her, but quashed these feelings immediately. She had put her trust in him, and he was more likely to make a mistake when trying to find the way up than she was.

_Can you lead up?_ he asked her.

Arya nodded slowly, and began to climb. Their ascent had slowed down immensely, because Arya had to search the small holds that were becoming more and more sparse. Eragon awkwardly clawed on them; the holds, although firm, were round, smooth and wet from the clouds, and his hands always threatened to slide off them.

His feet stuck in a crack, he watched the overhanging rock just above his head. His calve muscles were aching, but he pushed on. Arya was hanging from the rock that arched up with her back down, climbing around it; and he started on the difficulty as well. After only one more pull, his legs started shaking uncontrollably from the strain. He lost hold, and swung away from the wall, his body following the gravity that pulled at it; just hanging on the bulge of rock with his hands, which suddenly bore all of his weight.

The pain exploded in his shoulders, and he felt his hold slip away. Desperately, he tried to reinforce it with magic, still swinging back and forth; and it seemed to work, although in a strange way, the rock seemed to greedily suck up the magic he infused it with. Using it like a kind of glue, he was able to move hand over hand along the underside of the rock, until it finally turned vertical once again. Arya's hand was already waiting. Drawing on his last reserves, he threw his arm up and caught her hand, letting himself be pulled up to the plate above, relived and tired.

Arya noted his state at once when he didn't rise from the ground which was luckily low-angled.

_Will you be able to continue?_

Eragon bit his lip, his cramped legs shaking.

_After some rest. Maybe._

But he knew that it was more likely than not that this was the end.

_If only I …_

_What?_

_I used to always have Faelnirv with me, but…_

Eragon's head jerked up.

_How c__ould I forget that? Oromis gave me some, right before we left Ellesméra! I put the flask on the belt at one time._

His fingers fumbled at the belt, trying in vain to dislodge the silver flask from it, until Arya came to his help. Thankful, he offered her the first sip, before taking one himself. It was as if an explosion of energy was racing through his body. He gasped at the feel of cold fire inside of him, suddenly feeling rested and sated at the same time; his fatigue vanished and his thoughts perfectly clear.

Suddenly, the final part seemed easy. They climbed through another crack, and then, the rock seemed to bottom out. As Eragon realised what was happening, he couldn't suppress a loud laugh. Perhaps the Faelnirv added to it, but he felt as though there was a fire within him, burning strongly and brightly.

Those had been the exit cracks! They had conquered the route, _conquered the mountain_, for they were now on its top. Eragon straightened himself, handholds no longer needed, because the surface was flat where he stood. He threw his arms to the invisible night sky over him, in a wordless challenge.

Helgrind hadn't made it easy by any means, yet they had prevailed, overcome every obstacle it threw their way. It was an elating feeling. He felt alive like never before; after all the exertions, here was the reward.

_We did it, Arya!_

She was standing next to him, with the hint of a smile on her face, saying nothing, just watching; again with that strange glimmer in her eyes.

After a while, she moved.

_I thank you for the chance of this experience, Eragon._

And somehow, without really knowing why, he was sure that her voice in his head held more emotions than it had in a long time, in spite or perhaps because of the over-formality. The pale werelight showed a way; together they walked between the bizarre-looking columns, the twisted and jagged peaks that rose from the ground like an execrated, petrified forest. The wind swept across the top and between the stony trees with even more ferocity than over the rock face on their way up, but the magic both had wrought at least prevented them from being carried away; even if it made walking against the storm not any easier.

_We should split up. It will halve the time._

_Will you be able to find back here, Eragon?_

_Aye. It is not much different from when I used to hunt in the spine._

She didn't say anything further; instead turned right and vanished between two pillars that formed an archway in the mist. Eragon stood there, lost in thought, eyes watching the arch which just swallowed her, before he shook his head and walked straight on.

The mist was rolling around the peak; unveiling more stone sculptures: horrible grimaces, creatures breed in nightmares, figments that came to life here in the fog when it stretched its long wet fingers after him.

Another waft of mist parted suddenly. Out of nowhere appeared the petrified form of a huge, demonesque beast with three horned heads, directly in front of him; jaws opened wide in silent snarls, stony eyes glaring balefully … Eragon pushed away the thoughts, concentrating on his task. Three columns of obscenely twisted rock, nothing else. And yet …

He quickly walked past it, deeper into the forest of stone. With each step, the forms of stone grew wilder and moved closer together. Eragon had a hard time slipping past them. Arches and branches, roots and wines, twisting, winding, embracing; clawing deeply into the ground, twining strongly around a neighbour, all made of the black stone of Helgrind. It was like a web of stone surrounding him, and then, he stood in a spinney like a cage, with no possible way further onwards.

He dispelled the light and reached for the magic within, shaping it with his will to a completely different form than before when he called it forth.

"_Jierda_!"

His hands pointed at the stony webbing in front of him, a crooked black grid. Blue light raced across the entwined bars, meeting and separating again at intersections and finally diffusing on the uneven ground.

Eragon stared in shock at the pristine rock. It should have shattered into every direction, forcing him shield himself against the flying splinters of razor sharp stone, and yet it stood there like he was a novice of magic trying to ground the entirety of Helgrind into dust.

A second try changed nothing. The magic used against it seemingly simply ran over the surface of the rock and into the ground. He concentrated even more, and chose more specific words.

"_Stenr jierda_!"

The black rock stood as strong as ever, but after a second, it started to glow blue from the inside. It almost turned translucent, like a church's stained glass; and for the blink of an eyes, he was able to see though it and into the empty space beyond.

Then it returned to its black, solid initial form; doing nothing but mocking him with a short glimpse into where he wanted to proceed.

Eragon ground his teeth in frustration, while pondering just what Helgrind was. No matter in Alagaësia was resistant to magic. The very thought was preposterous. A bit of magic was in everything – so something that – that _deflected_ magic simply was impossible.

But he pushed these thoughts away; there would be a time to ponder those questions; this, however, was not it. He was sure, Oromis knew about it – Helgrind had been here for millennia, after all. The more urgent question was how to proceed.

He stared at the stones that barred his way, then at his hand. A few muttered words put a shield around his fist, before he lunged back and struck the stone with all his might. The twines shattered under the impact like brittle glass, with a ringing sound.

Eragon grimaced as a throbbing pain raced through his hand, carefully probing with his left hand the various bones, but it seemed like the shield had at least prevented anything from getting broken. He stepped through the opening, hissing as an edge sharp as a knife cut his skin. It wasn't deep, however, and he didn't pay it any more mind.

On the other side, there was a perfectly circular place; a clearing in the middle of the thicket of curved stone. The ground sloped gently downwards; Eragon was standing on the rim of a round hollow. And in the exact middle, looking strangely out of place in midst of all the jet-black stone, was a blue … flower?

Eragon blinked.

No mistake was possible. The chalice shone in a bright blue light in an otherwise dark place, blue as the sky on a warm summer's day, the leaves were green and thick and round, and he could even smell it. It was a single flower with a single blossom, and Eragon tried and failed to remember ever seeing a thing that was this out of place.

He walked down the depression, half expecting it to vanish into thin air with each step, to be nothing more than the mere figment of a mind taxed beyond its limits, but it stayed exactly where it was. Reaching it, Eragon lowered himself onto his knees. He extended his fingers, slowly; touching the stem of the solitary flower, feeling the life flow through it in small capillaries and fibres.

But how was that possible? How could it live here, where there was no other life; and for good reason as well, because Helgrind had seemed to him like the antithesis of any and every life, different and _black_?

Eragon had no answers to those questions. And somewhere within a strange urge grabbed him, to pick up this unlikely flower and explore its secrets further. It seemed too precious to dwell in these stony wastelands … and yet it seemed equally too precious to simply rip it out.

_Eragon … scout …_

Eragon frowned. Was that Arya? He could barely understand her. Rising, he asked: _Arya?_

_Yes! Eragon, has your mind-speak forsaken you? I tried to get you to listen for almost a minute now, yet there was naught but silence! I discovered a lead._

_My apologies, Arya. I discovered something as well – a small, blue flower –_

_What? T__his is hardly the time to speak of flowers, Eragon! Meet me where the arch stands and hurry yourself. I – _

Her voice fell silent once again. Frowning, he tried to comprehend what was happening, when a sudden thought struck him and made him groan in embarrassment. If he had problems understanding her, weren't chances it would be the same for her in return? Just _what_ had she heard when he spoke about the flower?

He turned to leave, yet the blue flower was calling to him stronger then ever. With a muttered oath, he knelt back down, reviewing what Oromis had thought him about these kind of spells; spells woven into music: the singing to plants.

His voice filled the hollow, ebbing up and down; his hands tracing the flower, stem, leaf, bloom. After only a few seconds, the melody seemed to follow a constant pulse, like a heartbeat, and the flower started to shine even more, pulsing with the music. And then, suddenly, a single petal started to fall, slowly; and he caught it in his hand gently, somehow feeling that he had just received a true treasure, a rare treasure; something so precious that is was worth more than all the gold in the world.

The song faded away and he rose; securely storing the blue petal in a pocket for whenever he would need it again. And wasn't it still beating?

He pushed the thoughts about the flower to the back of his mind, for now; climbing hurriedly up the incline to the fringe of the forest of stone. Where was the hole he'd created? The light called forth showed hardly more than he was able to see without its aid. Searching, his eyes moved over black and black – there! He stopped, frowning slightly. He could have sworn that the hole in the stone creeps had been larger … but there was no other hole. It had to be this.

Suspiciously, he watched the glassy black stone; tendrils of all thickness, from a spider's thread to a strong man's leg. Could it be … _growing_?

A shiver went down his spine as he imagined it sneaking out, twining around his legs, arms, torso; rendering him unable to move, to escape, keeping him in this place for all eternity; around his neck, cutting off his air … hastily, he started to climb through the black tunnel. Had it been this long when he crossed it in the other direction? It stretched and stretched … He flinched when the smooth stone brushed back his sleeve and touched bare skin. _Cold, so cold, in endless night_ … but then something in pocket started to beat, reassuringly, strongly. There was still life here, he was not lost.

He emerged on the other side unharmed, taking a deep breath, before he started to run down the way he had come; almost welcoming the fog of the clouds that returned once the stony trees became more sparse and thin. He had no desire to return to that place for a long time; that, at least, he was certain of.

Unfazed by the storm that tore at her and whipped over the top of Helgrind where there was no shelter, Arya was already waiting at the arch, so unmoving that she could have been part of it. Yet even with seeing not much more than her outline in the dark, Eragon could tell from her posture that she was impatient and on the edge; and he didn't blame her. This place made one so. She looked at him as he emerged from the mist, but didn't relax her stance.

When he'd joined her at the arch, she asked: "What kept you? Has something gone amiss?"

Eragon frowned. The howling wind had abated for a spell of time, pausing as if to catch breath.

"Did you ever get the feeling that this place is not … right? That it should not be here, and furthermore, that it does not like our presence? As if it was alive, somehow, even though it is the antithesis of all life …"

Arya looked at him unblinkingly, but said nothing.

He shook his head after a while.

"No matter. My mind is playing tricks on me."

Straightening himself, he answered her original question.

"I went deeper into heart of this forest of stone pillars. I found a single blue flower, in the exact centre of a depression, and it took me a while to get back. That was all."

He was almost sure he could feel the petal in his pocket.

"So that was your meaning. I wondered what you tried to convey with your words."

She was looking at him sternly. Eragon grinned sheepishly.

"What did you hear?"

Arya shook her head and her lips quirked an almost-grin.

"It is of no consequence. As it seems, Helgrind does not react well to magic."

She started to walk through the arch. Eragon followed her lead, a twisting path between the rocks that soon turned into a hollow-way.

"I noticed. The stone seems to absorb it, even though that should be impossible."

"Which was a great aid in my discovery."

Noticing his questioning gaze, she added: "The rock absorbs it. The air does not. It stands out. Here."

She stopped and held her hand about three feet high in midair. The walls on either side had grown to towering heights. It felt to Eragon as though they were walking through a great chasm in one of the peaks of Helgrind, which they probably were, he realised. It almost looked like an axe had cleaved the peak asunder.

"Can you feel it?"

Slowly, Eragon moved his hand through the air, not really knowing what to expect. A finger's length away from her own, there was … something. A faint prickling, perhaps. He tried to concentrate more, but the trace was very faint.

"It feels … strangely familiar. Like something I know or knew, but not quite. Different, but the same. I cannot believe you discovered it, though. I would have missed it for sure – it is barely there!"

For a short moment, Arya looked almost pleased.

"An apt description, Eragon. It is indeed of the same quality, yet from a different source – different than any one you could have known. What you feel is how the green Dragon-Egg feels like."

He jerked his hand back, staring at her, eyes wide.

"Are you certain?"

"I carried a Dragon-Egg for twenty years. Its magic is unmistakeable, and like all things magic, it leaves a residue, wherever it goes. So since the green egg is the only one left, it having been here is an adequate guess."

"Yes, Oromis spoke about that."

Distracted, he moved his hand back through the air in a steady motion, sensing the faint prickling for barely a heartbeat, before it was gone again. If he hadn't known what he was looking for, he would have dismissed it as the cold air's touch on his skin.

"Still, I can't believe you did not miss it."

"A Dragon-Egg is a powerful entity in its own right, as you know. And those who are sensitive to the nature and its forces can feel it easily. You have not lived a life as long as I do; a childhood surrounded, even pervaded, by magic in Ellesméra, so it does not come as natural to you."

Eragon remained silent at that, but his thoughts were troubled. Incidents like these made him realise how much he still had to learn. It wasn't a nice feeling.

And while he moved his hand back and forth, trying to the ingrain feeling in his memory, so that he would recognise it whenever he met it from here, he resolved for himself to do better and pay even more attention to Oromis, and whoever else could teach him.

"You could follow it?" he inquired.

"Yes."

Arya led him further along the path. It turned progressively more narrow, as the walls on the sides started to close in; twisting and winding. Soon after, the cleft was barely more than two feet wide. Arya and Eragon had to bend in various directions, following the path the stone dictated; nimbly dodging sudden bulges of rock that almost completely closed the gap, going as far as moving sideways for there was no other way to possibly pass through.

After a sudden turn, he could see the black clouds again like a grey slit between the black walls. However, the path had all but vanished. Eragon and Arya were crawling underneath a rock.

"If the walls are closing in any further, I have doubts that we will reach the end. We'll get stuck here!"

Eragon's voice was muffled as he was speaking against the rock, but at least the ever-blowing wind had been all but absent here.

"It will get better after this constriction."

True to Arya's word, the path became broad enough to walk comfortably next to each other again, but Arya slowed down.

"Carefully."

They reached the end of the split, and when Eragon wanted to take another step, he saw what Arya had meant.

There wasn't another step to take.

The ground fell away sharply into the night, directly in front of him, thousands of feet in a vertical drop. They were standing on a narrow ledge that ran alongside the mountain to their left for a few paces, until it vanished as well, in the smooth, glassy _black_ stone that was surface of Helgrind.

He stuck his head out and felt the wind like a physical blow.

"So what now?"

"It leads over the sill."

Without another word, Eragon started to walked out on the ledge, sideways; providing a target as small as possible for the wind.

Soon, they reached the end. Clawing at the wall, Eragon turned his head towards Arya, questioning.

_It leads further to our right._

Eragon turned his head into the opposite direction.

_But there is nothing there! Haven't you been here bef__ore?_

To his right, the wall curved outwards, effectively swallowing the last of the small landing they were placing their feet on. His eyes searched the rock face, tracking the ledge and trying to extrapolate it in his mind, wondering where it could end up, when he suddenly noticed something.

Interestingly enough, he noticed it because it was _not_ as black as the rest of Helgrind.

_It looks like we have to jump, then. A bit above us, in the wall, maybe six feet away._

Arya followed his gaze.

_I never stepped out of the split. But you may very well be right, by all means; it looks like a cave opening to me._

Eragon nodded, starting to concentrate. There was no place to take a run up, and he had but one try. The abyss in-between was unforgiving with even the smallest slip or miss-step.

And then he jumped.

**A/N:** Oh no! Is Eragon hanging from a cliff? Cross your fingers that I'm able to write fast, so that we can see whether he'll fall down or not! Meanwhile I'd love to hear what you think, reviews are always appreciated :) You can even rant about me ending the chapter in the worst place possible – or maybe it wasn't that bad …?

Chapter progress as always in my profile; the next one is titled **Choices**.

**Translation:** Rock of Bryggja – Rock of Landing, the place where the first boat of the elves touched Alagaësian soil.


	4. Note: Progress of the chapter

**Edited note on March 26th:**

Yes, I'm alive, and no, the story is not dead. Currently I'm stuck (for over three weeks already) at the probably last scene of the next, fifth chapter. Once that is wrapped up, I'll clean up the chapter and it's off to beta. Hopefully, that will sooner (weekish) rather than later; but in any case, I thank you all for your patience.

With the new chapter, I'll include a short summary of the last three chapters. It really has been too long.

Since it also turned out to be far longer than I anticipated (_again_), this chapter will not be the great one at Helgrind, but rather a transitional chapter, although I hope I can make up the lack of real conflict with a nice Eragon/Arya moment at least partly.

I only hope I haven't lost all my readers till then ...

- SeriousScribble


	5. Insight

**Disclaimer:** A world of dreams and make-believe, thought up by someone before me; and so all I can offer is this small addendum.

**A/N:** *looks purposefully not at the date* Well … I'm sorry. I have no real excuse, other than that I preferred writing on my HP stories for a while. The only consolation I can offer is that in my opinion, the time I spent away from Eragon did the chapter good – I'm fairly satisfied with it; and otherwise the assertion that I am really, really sorry that it took that long.

At the end, I was stuck at the last part of the story for an entire month on top of all that (I had seven different documents of that scene, before I was satisfied), but rest assured that I have no intentions of abandoning Flawed Perfection even if it's becoming longer and longer.

**On** that topic, this is not the big chapter at Helgrind, but rather a transitory chapter, since I had to split it (again). The big one is the next one, now. I can't wait to get there … it has some awesome twists, and will (finally!) end the first story arch. After then 60k words. Oh well.

To compensate for the lack of plot advancement, action and all the flashy things, this one shows more of Arya's character and has some Eragon/Arya fluff, my personal favourite scene so far. Enjoy that while it lasts, folks. The next chapter will – but ah, that would telling (inset cue evil laugh here). Oh, you'll see. I _so_ can't wait.

On the other hand, to all those of you who like to understand Arya a little bit better, I think you'll be happy here regardless :)

Thanks, as always, to _SocialBunny_ for betaing.

* * *

_**Recap of the last chapters:**_

Eragon, Arya and Saphira left the Varden thirteen days ago; first accompanying the dwarfs to Farthen Dûr, to attend the funeral of the late King Hrothgar, and then on a journey across Alagaësia, to get to Helgrind and rescues Katrina. Despite Roran's angry protests, he remained behind; so all his hopes now rest on his cousin and his companions.

On the way to Helgrind, the three of them encountered imperial soldiers at the village of Rak, which led to a disagreement between Eragon and Arya; since she reminded him of their mission, yet he couldn't watch the soldiers killing the villagers and burning down the town, remembering Carvahall. However, his intervention had consequences when a magician accompanying the soldiers was able to escape, presumably bringing knowledge of the incident to King Galbatorix.

Despite the additional risk, Eragon and Arya continued, reaching Helgrind days later. Unnatural thick thunderclouds were already spreading from Helgrind upon their arrival, so thick that it was as dark as in the middle of the night, and preventing Saphira to fly them up to Helgrind as they had planned, since the rapidly changing currents were too strong for her.

So, Eragon and Arya left Saphira behind and started to climb on the mile-high mountain, aided and shielded by their magic. After a few close calls, they arrived safely on top after six hours of climbing, splitting up and searching for the entrance. Eragon found an eerie forest of stone that held a single flower in its centre, of which he took a petal with him. Arya, in turn, found and followed the trace of the last, green, dragon egg.

However, while they were separated, it became apparent that Helgrind had a strange reaction to all things magic, severely hampering their ability to reach one another with their minds; as well as feeling unnatural, cold and just all around _wrong_. The forest invoked an impalpable fear in Eragon; and he was glad to meet up with Arya again.

She led Eragon along the trail of the egg, through one peak of Helgrind and onto a narrow ledge, from where they could see the entrance of a cave – the place they had been searching for. However, in between was nothing – no handhold, no place to rest their feet – and so, Eragon jumped.

* * *

**4. ****Insight**

_It was cold and she was utterly alone. And for the first time in the last half-hour, she admitted to herself what she'd known all along._

_She was lost._

_She swallowed and furiously fought against the sudden burning in her eyes, against the tears threatening to well up._

_She would not cry._

_Instead, she forced her eyes to look ahead. There was no path. She turned, beating down the stab of anxious worry, and looked behind her. She spotted a strangely shaped rock, but could not rem__ember passing it. She turned again, searching for something, anything, that would tell her into which direction to go, but there was nothing. She didn't remember this part of Du Weldenvarden at all. _

_She'd gone further into the forest than usual, but hadn't been paying attention whereto she walked. And even for elves, that was fatal, for outside of Ellesméra, Du Weldenvarden was the same on no two moments; wild and full of magic, changing directions on a whim and distances in the blink of an eye. Where home__ had lain moments before, there now could be nothing but endless stretches of uninhabited land._

_All around her, the black trees stood tall and silent, unconcerned with her insignificant plight, forbidding and dark, like a wall. The biting winter's gale whi__stled through the boughs, seizing the tops of the firs and pines with its icy grip and chilling her to the bone. She shivered with cold._

_It was _only_ the cold. Of course._

_In the short spell of time where the wind ceased, to draw breath and return with renewed vigour, she listened. There was no sound, no one to ask; just herself, her own breathing and the beating of her heart._

_**Crack**__._

_A twig snapped, seeming like thunder in the silence. She whirled around. Leaves rustled. She swallowed again and shrunk back, n__ot daring to touch it with her mind. What could it be? Wasn't that a heavy huffing?_

_She wanted to reach out with her mind so badly then, call for Mother; call so loud that she would come. She would hear. She would take her home. Oh, how she suddenly longed__ to be in her mother's warm embrace._

_But something else stirred deep inside her. It was her mistake. She would fix it. Mother had nothing to do with it. She could not bear seeing her disappointed gaze, would not stand for a scolding of her foolishness to w__ander this deep into the forest. This was her problem, hers, hers alone, and no one else's. She was going to get out of this situation the same way she'd gotten in: on her own. There was just one thing to do._

_She gathered all her courage, pushing away her __fear and the vivid images of foaming-mouthed beasts and the frightening thought of Du Weldenvarden's unpredictable, strange distances that were short on one day and miles upon miles the other and even closed circles on yet different days, and walked ahead _just_ into the direction she'd heard the noise from, to prove herself that she felt no fear; never faltering, never looking back; walked until she would have reached home or could go on no longer, she thought._

_The sun wasn't yet below the horizon or so she __guessed; but it made no difference, because like a heavy blanket the trees swallowed the light and it was murky down here. For what seemed her like hours she trudged over roots and ducked below branches in the constant twilight, felt her legs getting tired and moved on anyway. Eventually, there was nothing left but emptiness in her mind, as she walked in a haze of exhaustion, only placing one foot in front of the other, in turns; long since apathetic to the howling wind and the biting frost, her fingers cold and unfeeling._

_Minutes, hours, days; all was one, her feel for time completely gone, lost somewhere between the ancient trees that thought in years like days. Only the density of the forest steadily increased; like a wall around her now, the thick shrubs and close fir forest seemingly making an effort to move further together and detain her here forever. Thorny fingers clawed at her nice dress, tearing it apart; placing their leafy hands over her eyes and removing her sight. She stumbled over roots, twist__ing her ankle, crawled on all fours before she struggled to her feet again and continued her trek; restless and with a determination she didn't ever knew she possessed._

_And still, after all the time, not longer than an hour but at least a day, something cut through her state of empty exhaustion and halted her advance. Like a devastating blow, the desperation hit her anew. Towering in front of her was an entire _wall_ of smooth rock, with no spot to place a feet or grab a hold; reaching from where she stood, at its base, up high, so very high into the starless sky. And it stretched on and on, to either side of her for as long as her eyes could see in the dark of the night, quelling any hope there might have been to perhaps walk around it._

_And the tears in her eyes still stemmed from the biting wind only. Of course._

_But she pulled herself together once more, spotting vines on the very base of the rock face next to her, giving her an idea. She tore at them with all her might, cut them off, until a few strands lay to her feet; and she started to knot a rope from vines and magic, with a noose to catch the single hook-like protrusion she made out above._

_She threw it up there, gathering her magic to aid her, but it ran like water through her hands. Hardly was she able __to keep it together; the storm moved her noose around at its flighty will, rendering her best efforts void. The wind! The trice cursed wind … now her rope was directly above the hook, now she carefully lowered it, but then the storm picked up, with playful__ ease swatting away her noose; mocking her with perfect calm afterwards; again and again. She wanted to cry in frustration._

_She gathered all her remaining strength, and as the fatigue tore through her in a burning pain, she uttered a single-worded cry and _forced_ the noose against the wind into place. It raged against her focused will with boundless wrath, and could yet do nothing at all, as the rope was firmly in place. Her green eyes glittered in the dark._

_She started to climb at once, and once again, she __reached her by now well-known state of numbness. Reaching the end of her rope, searching for hold on the rock and then for a new crack to hook it into, climbing on … long since it had become a personal fight. All thoughts of getting help seemed ridiculousl__y far away, it was her, only her, against the nature. The storm tore at her, trying to make her fall or give up or back down, and she gritted her teeth and climbed on. Another gust nearly ripped her from the rock, carrying small, hard icicles that started pelting her. She shouted her challenge into the night._

"_I will not!"_

_The wind howled in answer, furious at her defiance and blew stronger and stronger, but she clawed her fingers into the stone, uncaring at the cuts it left on her hands, uncaring at the many more tears the sharp rock made in her formerly fine dress, uncaring about the throbbing ankle that was thick and swollen. Her eyes were solely fixed on the edge that lay above._

"I. Will. Not!_"_

_Not back down, not give up. Her world drowned in a soughing fog of howling wind and razor sharp shards of ice, cutting her, deafening her, robbing the last of her sight as something warm and sticky trickled from her forehead and glued her eyes shut. Blindly, she felt her way up, no longer concerned with anything bu__t the next pull, the next piece of rock to grab. Left hand and right foot, right hand and left foot … eternity split into singular movements._

_And then, there was only empty air and she felt blades of grass beneath her fingers, so wonderfully soft and soothing to her ill-treated hands. She dug her fingers into the moist earth, pulling forwards, and the storm vanished and remained behind. She pried one eye open and found herself looking above the edge, at the end of the rock face._

_Blinking confusedly, she sta__red directly at the silhouette of an old man, sitting there in utmost calm, as if it was the most common thing on earth that the head of a princess suddenly appeared above the edge. In fact, he looked as if he'd been expecting her._

"_Good evening, Princess,__" he said._

_He gazed at her with mild curiosity as she reached for an exposed root, and pulled herself up fully, clothes torn, hand littered with scratches and slick with blood, her ankle an angry red; but he made no move to help her, not as she crawled ahead, not as she tried to stand up, not even as her legs gave out under her, and she was lying there on the ground in a crumpled heap, unable to walk a single further step._

_Instead, he tilted his silver-haired head._

"_Why ever would you choose that particular__ way to come to me, child?" he inquired curiously. "It seems an overly inconvenient path. Why, I don't believe someone ever came to me from down there!"_

"_Because it was in the way!" she snapped._

_He nodded, as if that made perfect sense._

"_Of course."_

_She st__ared at him angrily – who was he to question her? – but suddenly, all that was unimportant. Sitting on the ground, she realised what she'd done – she'd found _someone_, all on her own; was not longer lost, had braved any and every adversity thrown her way, and now it felt like a dam burst; a wild, exhilarating feel of success pouring in every pore of her body. A beaming smile split her face, all anger forgotten._

"_I did it!" she exclaimed._

"_It seems that way," he answered, before he rose from the stump he was __sitting on. She saw its outline grey in the dark._

"_I have been expecting you for a while," he remarked, while he bent over her and started to heal her cuts and bruises. She wanted to sigh in relief as a wonderful cool feel swept through her ankle and the s__welling receded._

"_That was an impressive feat of magic down there for one so young. Crude, of course, but nevertheless effective. As you see, I know a little bit of the gramarye myself. I might be able to teach you more, if you are interested?"_

_Arya stared at him wide-eyed. He was clearly a master of the gramarye, if he could use it that easily and without the need to speak, too. And he wanted to teach her?_

"_Yes," she blurted out, before she hastily added: "Please."_

_He nodded again, as if he'd expected noth__ing else, and only then she remembered his earlier words._

"_You've been expecting me?" She frowned. "But who are you?"_

_A faint smile appeared on his face. "I would be Osthato Chetowä, the Mourning Sage. And it was not as though I could _not_ expect you." His tone turned mildly chiding. "You made noise enough for _two_ rampaging bears. I was able to track you in forest at least two miles off."_

_She stared at this man, uttering those words in perfect calm. She remembered her pains, the misery, the fear, the uncerta__inty; how she struggled through the forest and up the crag – and he had watched it all and done nothing?_

"_So – so you knew all along I was there?" she burst out in ire. "Why didn't you come? You could – you could have –"_

_Words failed her in her indignation, and she stared at the old man with his serene grey eyes in outrage. He looked at her earnestly, and nodded._

"_Yes, I could have." His tone was neither approving nor disapproving. It simply was. And suddenly, when she felt the weight of his gaze descending__ down on her, she thought that this man knew her better than anyone, perhaps even including herself; and she knew what he would ask, and at the same instant the answer she had to give._

"_But would you have accepted my help?"_

Standing on the narrow ledge, six thousand feet above the ground, Eragon jumped.

And missed the edge of the cave opening by a foot.

A sudden gust of wind from the ever-howling storm around Helgrind's top was enough to steer him off track, pushing him from the wall, and he started to fall into the deep.

"Eragon!"

He heard Arya's desperate cry above him, as well as in his mind; helpless, unable to do anything. The air rushed past him, tearing at him, shaking and buffeting him, and there was no rescue in sight, just the vertical wall in front of him and the thick fog of clouds around him, already hiding the form of Arya from sight: bent forward over the edge as much as she dared and helplessly staring down.

And he picked up more and more speed as the earth pulled him towards her; and soon, all too soon, he was too fast to catch a halt, even if there had been one.

It was an oddly interesting experience, he noted with a detached amusement; falling through the clouds like this … he was completely weightless. He spun on his back, pretending to lie on a mattress, and to his delight, it worked. A mattress of air, comfortably propping up his back … the ward had to still dampen most of the blasts of air.

Now he could think.

Of course, if he didn't decide on something fast, he would be dead.

That thought brought everything to a crashing halt. His eyes flew open. What _had_ he been thinking?

"_Lethr!_" he screamed. The rush of energy that poured out of him like a river into the ocean left him gasping in its wake. He came to a jerky halt, thrown back and forth by the howling wind; feeling like he had just ran miles and miles without pause. And the magic still left him at an alarming rate. He cancelled the spell at once, starting to fall again.

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid_," he muttered panting, trying to regenerate enough for another attempt. _Never use absolutes! _Oromis' voice echoed in his mind. He didn't have to wait for the impact of the ground to kill him, if he did it first. And it had been completely useless as well – what did he want staying still in the air? He had _known_ that he was in no shape to make his way back up to Arya. So the only way was the way safely down, and for that, he needed the magic to _slow his fall_.

"_Seinka hrap iet!_"

Of course, he couldn't see how much slower he needed to be. H didn't feel weightless anymore, which meant he no longer fell freely, but that was all. All around him were the dark clouds, swirling and churning, offering no sense of orientation.

_Eragon?_

Arya's voice entered his mind, very softly, and atypically timid.

_Are you – s__till there? Eragon? Answer me!_

He took a deep breath.

_Yes. I'm falling slowly._

There was a long pause. Then her tone was all businesslike. _Good. I presume you are in no position to make it back up?_

Thrown off balance by her sudden change in her tone, he responded briefly.

_No._

Only then did he grasp the full meaning of that answer, coming to the same conclusion Arya most likely did moments earlier. He wouldn't return to the entrance. He had no hope of getting to Katrina and killing the Ra'zac. Eragon cursed under his breath. Unless he climbed up again, he had lost against the black mountain; and even then, it was a whole day lost.

Quickly like his strength, the presence of Arya in his mind seemed to somehow wane, and he hastened to ask her before it would be too late.

_Will you try to reach the ledge, Arya, and look for Katrina?_

She didn't answer, and for a moment he feared his plea to be already lost in whatever dampened the connection so. But then, the musical trill of her voice reached him for the last time, thin and faraway.

_I will, Eragon Shadeslayer. As you promised your cousin, so I shall promise you now; I will find her. Take care of yourself. We will meet again on the ground._

And then he was alone, completely alone; with only the blinding white flashes of lightning and the howling storm to keep him company; somewhere, between heaven and earth.

– * –

When he woke again, the first thing he noticed was that it was warm and dark.

Frowning, he tried to piece together the last five minutes. The white-hot lightning licking at him with hungry forked tongues … he had been so tired … and he had been falling, always falling … he had been falling _too fast_ … he had summoned his last strength, in a last, desperate effort, while his heart beat all too fast and his leaden limbs screamed at him their protest … purple stars in front of his eyes, in a dance of madness … and then nothing, blackness.

And now it was still black.

He turned his head, not seeing anything, and went on to stretch his limbs, which felt surprisingly well; encountering resistance – hard, scaly resistance, and it moved.

A faint memory drifted to the front of his mind. There was a dragon. It was his dragon? And it was a she, and she had a name … _Saphira?_

Slowly, the trickle of memories turned into a torrent that came rushing back, while he shook his head as to clear the last cobwebs.

The muttered word of _fire_ in the ancient language, combined with the intent of shaping a floating ball, created a softly glowing light, which popped into existence. He was tucked under Saphira's wing, next to her warm belly, whose blue scales glittered and shimmered mysteriously in the dim gleam, distributing fleeting specks of blue light all over him and the ground; yesteryear's brittle, yellow grass and tufts of spicy smelling heather.

Her wing moved again, and her snout appeared to his right, in the make-shift cave.

_How do you feel?_

Eragon frowned, trying to assert his state. He was aching all over, in the unlikeliest of places, and generally felt sore, but it was a far cry from the state of pure exhaustion in the last minutes he remembered from his fall.

_Better … I think. Did I crash?_

_No._

_Oh. Good._

Saphira blinked at him disapprovingly with one large eye.

_**No**__, you did not crash, you only nearly died from expending too much ener__gy – again! You've been lying here like a dead rabbit for over three days now._

"I've been _what_?"

– * –

The hours passed, or at least Eragon assumed they did, as the artificial darkness didn't differentiate between day and night.

Three days. He'd lost three days.

Three additional days that he spent away, doing nothing, while Nasuada and her Varden were unprotected against a serious attack, three additional days that Katrina was imprisoned and that she might not have. It had taken a few minutes for that to sink in; and then the worry descended upon him like a tidal wave, as he came to the last conclusion: Three days later, and Arya was still gone.

Now, he was sitting leant against Saphira, staring into the stormy darkness, which lay like a heavy blanket over the country and over the towns; the massive layer of clouds stretching the darkest hour of the night to cover every second of the day. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere ahead. Where the night was the darkest. that was where Helgrind was. Where Arya was. And so, his thoughts followed his eyes, fixed on the rock perhaps a mile away and only visible, because it was _not_ visible.

At least the hail had stopped whipping over the empty plain.

He'd shown Saphira memories of what had transpired atop Helgrind, and she, in turn, had provided him with her view. After he had arrived on the ground, unconscious, she'd carefully moved him away from the gigantuous rock. She didn't like it at all, and even though she reacted scarcely and said little, he knew that she was worried, more so after she heard his story.

Where Eragon only felt the artificial cold upon touching it, she felt … something. She'd sent him the feeling, when he had shared his memories with her. He couldn't express it with words. Perhaps it was best described with a choir singing constantly in the background, always the same melody, and just the tiniest bit off-key, in a way that made you physically ill. It crept around the edges of the conscience, barely noticeably, worming its way into thoughts and feelings tentacle-like, rooting there.

It made her instinctively feel uneasy and restless. Perhaps it was a quality of the rock. Perhaps it was a foreboding inkling of something yet to come.

Eragon pushed that away; had more tangible concerns, and they were worrisome enough. In an effort to distract himself from Arya, he'd tried to gauge how far the darkness had spread and had come up with no result. He wondered how far it went south. As long as Galbatorix didn't invent an easy way for everyone in his army to see at night, he had no additional advantage over the Varden. But he wasn't the one wanting to attack at the moment, and it would have a devastating effect on the Varden's morale.

Including his trip to Farthen Dûr, he had been absent for over two weeks by now, and instead of the return of a victorious Dragonrider, the northerly wind carried an inky darkness. Instead of waking up to see blue scales glinting in the sun, they saw the sun being hidden away by eternal night.

It truly was an eternal night, Eragon thought shivering, unleashed from Helgrind, as if the Dark Gates had opened, spilling forth their un-light.

And what power it would take! Galbatorix was in his Citadel in Urû'baen, an entire day's journey on Saphira' back away, yet the clouds had never faltered in their advance. It was a frightening prospect to fight someone as powerful as this. He had learned so much, and grown so fast, yet was nowhere _close_ to being able to create something like this, not even if he would be standing in its very centre, on the top of Helgrind, and not somewhere remote. He almost hoped it had something to do with Helgrind; anything to rationalise the level of power Galbatorix wielded and executed, even if it made the prospect of Arya moving inside –

Agitated, he jumped up. It was no use. Every other thought brought him back to Arya.

"And I can't even tell just how long it's been exactly!" he exclaimed agitatedly.

Behind him, Saphira moved, unfolding her wings.

_You can't. But the storm abated a bit. Perhaps I can._

Eragon understood at once what she meant.

_Let me fly with you?_

He pushed his mind to hers and his world toppled; for a short time he felt a peculiar sensation of falling, even though he was standing firmly with his feet on the ground. Then he was with Saphira, seeing the world through her eyes and realising astonished that he could see even more clearly than with his elfin eyes. The vision was entirely blue and the edges of objects jittered, but he could see even the silhouettes of Dras-Leona, more than two miles away.

_If Galbatorix's wrenched darkness keeps up, I will have to share your vision more regularly_, he told her in her mind. _It is superior to mine_.

He felt her consent, and then her muscles straining as her wings beat furiously to lift her weight off the ground. Saphira flew in large circles up into the sky, spiralling closer and closer to the still lightning-lit clouds. And then they dipped into the black mass, and even Saphira's eyes were shrouded by the fog. He felt the clouds surrounding him – Saphira –, wet and cold, and the currents tearing at her wings, much stronger then he ever would have suspected. But he felt Saphira navigating expertly, feeling things he couldn't feel and searching for nuances in the winds no language he knew could express.

She moved from one supporting current to the next and he marvelled at her instincts. Saphira seemed to anticipate exactly how they would twist and turn … and then she spread her wings and stopped beating them altogether.

_What –_

But before he could say another word they were _ripped_ upwards. Violently, upheaved by a roaring inferno of wind. He felt the brutal strain on his wings, small tears inside his muscles, yet there was the exhilarating joy of playing with the winds, playing with the clouds … _like a nestling with strands of straw. And still, he was accelerating, flying faster than a diving falcon, faster than one of the human sticks-that-poked-in-his-wings-if-Eragon-forgot-to-ward-them._

_Higher, and higher, surrounded by the white-flashes-that-tickled-his-scales, with no end in sight_ … with difficulty, Eragon retreated a bit, to not distract Saphira in case she had to act at a moment's notice, but there was no need. It went simply up, travelling miles in mere minutes; far higher than Helgrind they were catapulted, higher than they'd ever flown, nearing the height of the peaks in the Beor Mountains almost ten miles above the ground. Suddenly, there was light from above, racing towards them. And like an arrow let loose from a string, they shot out of the flat top of a giant cumulonimbus cloud and into the open sky.

The dark clouds retreated below them at an amazing speed, while the current lost its force. Saphira folded her wings and let the momentum carry her towards the sun, for it was there, bright and clear. Gracefully they described a wide arch, the peak another thousand feet above the highest clouds, seemingly close enough to touch the sun and then they were falling, weightless and free.

He felt the bitter, bitter cold, with a strange rustle instantly coating her cloud-wet scales in a layer of wonderful shimmering pure blue ice, smelled the clean air, saw the breathtaking beauty beneath them. The churning sea of the clouds, drifting, changing constantly; flickering from the lightning inside like an otherworldly fire; the raw force of updraughts, like the one on whose back they'd ridden; ripping frazzles of cloud with them, creating rotating towers and anvils and pillars. And over everything was the golden glow of the setting sun, setting the sky ablaze in colours from bright yellow to deep indigo.

_Four days._

Eragon was soon distracted from the spectacle. This was the only real thought the sinking sun inspired in him. They had arrived at Helgrind four days ago; and that was how long Arya was inside of it now.

Saphira spread her wings, still not beating; only soaring above the dark clouds, slowly circling deeper and deeper with as little movement as possible. Eragon realised that she was saving her breath, for she could not have satisfied her need of air up here had she been actively flying. Perhaps it wasn't even possible to fly here at all. He would have blackened out already, had his body been here.

The sun dipped into the clouds on the eastern horizon. The clouds were unbroken, as far as Saphira could see. The sky got darker; the first stars blinked from above. Soon, the sole remaining source of light was the pale flickering of lightning in the clouds shining up to him, steadily getting closer.

_Let's fly back, Saphira_, he said finally.

She said nothing, simply dipping her nose and angling her wings, plunging down. But he felt that she was ill at ease. And he was not surprised that her worry for Arya wasn't any less than his own.

– * –

Eventually he fell into the trance-like state of rest that was common to all elves, sheltered from the strong rain that has set in back on the ground by Saphira. She was next to him, watching out, yet he was constantly alert as well; the smallest sign of any life was enough to wake him at once, but the scraggy heath directly around Helgrind was deserted. Hours later, he was awake again. The rain had stopped, the next day broke; he fancied that the pitch-black day lost the tiniest bit of its darkness, although it probably was just his imagination.

Of Arya, however, there was no sign.

_You need to eat, Eragon_, Saphira said.

And so, he listlessly chewed on piece of bread, knowing she was right. He'd long since given up on trying to think about anything other than Arya missing in Helgrind, and wasn't really feeling hungry, although he knew it to be not accurate. The last time he'd eaten a real meal was before the climb; it was just his worry spoiling his appetite, thoroughly.

And suddenly, between two bites, there was the disturbance in his thoughts he'd been waiting for. Faint, barely noticeable, but definitely Arya. He knew how she felt so well – the precise clarity of her mind, sharply marked off against the backdrop, sounding bright silver-burning, far deeper and encompassing than anything a simple human mind could grasp at one time. A mistake wasn't possible. He'd have found in a room full of other elves, blind. Eragon felt like screaming in relief.

He jumped up.

"She's there, Saphira. She's coming!"

But something was wrong. The usual brilliant presence felt dulled, smudgy; a loud note of discord within the landscape of his mind. Her body came into view, a mere shadow, but enough to assert her state as lightning plunged everything into glaring light for a moment.

She was staggering, missing steps, stumbling, almost falling down. And she was alone.

Eragon rushed towards her, reaching her in a matter of moments. Her breathing came in short gasps; she was clearly at the end of her strength. He ducked under her right arm, supporting her, and instead of protesting, she leant on him heavily, a testament of the state she was in. She was surprisingly heavy for her lithe form, he carried almost all her weight; and halfway back to Saphira's and his little camp, she collapsed completely.

"Arya!" Eragon shouted. A fine layer of sweat covered her forehead, and she was shivering violently; she didn't respond. He lifted her off the ground completely, balanced her weight over his shoulder and ran to Saphira as fast as he could.

At her side, Eragon gently lowered Arya to the ground, onto his sleeping mat. She was breathing erratically and coughing. _So pale_, Eragon thought worriedly. _She's so pale_. He carefully wiped the sweat off her face and righted her, propping her up against Saphira, who had turned her head, staring at him.

_You have to do something, Eragon!_

"I know that!" he snapped. He filled a quantum of water from the water skin into a bowl and added a few drops of the Faelnirv.

Gently brushing the raven hair out of her face, he brought the bowl to her lips and started to pour the drink in her mouth. She coughed again, but started to swallow. Ever so slowly, a bit of life returned into her cheeks and her breathing levelled. Eragon breathed in relief, even though she was still silent and staring vacantly ahead.

But nothing was further from his mind at the moment than getting answers. She would start speaking when she felt ready.

Arya continued to shiver on his side. Her clothes were soaked. The rainstorm in the night had drenched her. He put his hands on her shoulders and muttered: "_Kledr tornar_," drying her clothes. But she was still cold, so he gave her the warmest place, against Saphira's belly; where she was nestled between Saphira's wing and himself. After hesitating shortly, he also put her arm around her, pulling her close. She said nothing, but he felt her leaning into him, and even resting her head on his shoulder.

And like that, they sat there, in the cocoon of warmth under Saphira's wing; together, side on side. He felt her breathing slow to a normal pace, becoming regular, the shivering ceasing; felt her comforting weight on his shoulder, strands of hair brushing over his neck, and her proximity; so close.

Over the land, outside, the storm had calmed for the time being; and for a precious moment Eragon knew he would always remember the day turned from dreadful to wonderful. Wonderful, like simply sitting there in the dark in silence, with seconds stretched to hours and hours to eternity. Wonderful, like sitting not alone, but with Arya's head leant against his; the air smelling of leather and heath and pines. And who ever knew something as simple as that could evoke this flurry of feelings, and do all sorts of funny things to one's stomach; including an indecision of whether to flop or to flip and so constantly alternating between either state.

– * –

Finally, she moved, putting her hand atop his for a while and giving it a soft squeeze, before removing it from her shoulder; gently but firmly. She wasn't annoyed, Eragon could tell; but the moment was over. She muttered: "_Orna kledr iet_", and within the blink of eye, her clothes eradiated a warmth as though they'd been hanging in front of a blazing fire; warming her quickly and thoroughly. Eragon felt it even through his own clothes.

Saphira large blue eye loomed over him in the dark, fixating him sternly.

_What?_ he said defensively. _My way worked too._

Saphira chose to not comment on that.

Arya stared ahead silently.

"It was a maze," she whispered suddenly. Her voice was rough and tired, and he was barely able to make out her words, even though she was speaking directly next to his ear.

"But however long the tunnels wound, and much as I searched, all of them led me back to the beginning, only running through the peak in endless circles, never going deeper down inside the mountain. I don't know how long it took me to follow every gallery to its end. I searched them all. But it was of no use, there was nothing there, just the unnatural, _cold_ black stone …"

Arya shivered, and Eragon frowned. The eerie forest of stone and the clearing sprang to his mind again, the blackness and the coldness. His lack of knowledge about the gigantic rock started to truly worry him. There was something there he should have known, he was certain of it. His fingers involuntarily wandered to the breast pocket he'd placed the strange flower in.

"Yet, did I miss a fork? Or perhaps overlooked a shaft, cleverly hidden in a nook where the shadows blended together, confusing my mind? I didn't know. And so I searched them all over again, and afterwards another time. The strange reaction of the rock with all things magic made it … complicated. After the third time, though, I … I – gave up."

Her voice almost broke. Eragon said nothing.

He was angry and disappointed, but neither at and nor with Arya. She'd done more than he ever could have demanded of her. She didn't need to say it out loud for him to see that she had searched the tunnels tirelessly, for almost four days, without a single break or rest. Nothing but pure exhaustion had stopped her. And then she still had to climb back down.

He muttered the word in the Ancient Language, and a floating ball of light cast its glow over them, painting Arya's face in deep shadows.

He began to realise just how far beyond her limits she had gone; and she was rapidly reaching it once more. Even the Faelnirv could only do so much. She needed a rest desperately, but there was last thing he wanted to know. Everything else could and would wait for another day.

"What of the trace of the egg?" he asked softly.

Arya shook her head shortly.

"It vanished exactly at the entrance to the first cave. In midair, yet there was nothing special there, at least nothing I could find."

Her voice lost even more strength, but she raised her head, looking at him in the light.

"I'm sorry I failed you, Eragon."

Eragon sighed.

"It's alright, Arya. No one could have done more than you did. No one could have done as much as you _did_."

But then her eyes flared.

"It is not alright! You counted on me. The entrance was there. _It was there!_ Merely my mind was not sharp enough to locate it, my wit not great enough to see through whatever fogged its presence, I not strong enough to search longer – perhaps … perhaps, if you had been there … you might have seen what I could not."

Her voice became even more agitated, and he started at the sudden fierceness.

"You trusted me to finish the task we were given when you could no longer, and I failed to do so. My honour is diminished, and I will not stand for it!"

By the end she was almost shouting. Her green eyes bored into him, long and hard.

"Will you offer me a second chance, Eragon Shadeslayer? To redeem myself? I will find a way to your cousin's fiancée, this I swear."

"But you don't –"

"I _will_."

Her tone broke no argument. It was a promise to him as much as to herself, and he relented. He noticed the feverish glint in her eyes, and her quivering hands, shaking in barely suppressed exhaustion. She was reaching the end even more rapidly than he'd expected. She needed to rest. But she wouldn't, not before he gave in; and perhaps not even then.

So he relented, and thought of a way to make her without offending her.

"Very well."

She moved to stand up.

"Good. The first thing –"

He pulled her back down.

"We will take a day to rest, though," he interrupted. "I'm still not quite what I should be, after that fall."

Her head jerked around. She looked at him sharply, and he guessed that she had discerned his real intentions at once, but then the ghost of a smile showed on her face. Even that looked tired.

"You are a kind friend, Eragon," she murmured. "Even when you know to be right, you still try to make it look like I am. But I'm not. I'm _not_."

Arya uttered a short, choked laugh.

"I'm not right and I'm not fine, tried to hide it and you saw it," she said and he wondered at the sudden biting bitterness in her voice, almost loathing.

"Call me on my foolish pride, Eragon, for it is but an inkling of what I deserve. That, a thousandfold that, for everything I did and it did to me. So why the need to hide what you spotted so well?"

She gave up all pretences. All masks were off. Eragon sat shocked, at her sudden outburst as much as at the many emotions flittering over her face, pure exhaustion, uncertainty, old hurt and new, and still, an arduously, steely determination underneath it all, keeping her together, the only reason she did not fall apart. For the shortest of moments, she looked vulnerable, and indeed, hurt, before she bowed her head, and hid her face behind a curtain of black hair.

"There _should_ be no need to hide, and yet … bear with me, Eragon, for it has been long indeed since I … anyone … Pride should not keep anyone from admitting the truth, at the very least. Especially not me, and so you are right and I was wrong."

Eragon shook his head, digesting all this new information. "For everything, there will be a time. At this moment, though, whatever you did matters not."

He smiled softly, somehow certain that she would detect it, even if she wasn't looking at him; and gently pushed her onto his mat.

"For now, rest, Arya. Saphira and I will keep watch so that nothing might disturb you. You will be safe."

A tired smile.

"I know," she said simply. And with no further words, she fell into a deep sleep, while Eragon and Saphira watched over her, as they said they would.

– * –

It was quiet. The morn had passed away slowly, turning into noon and afternoon while Arya was sleeping, and eventually, he'd become lost in thoughts, staring into the day that was night; undisturbed in his musings which like so often centred on Arya, and even if he would beware of telling her that, her earlier words – perhaps intentionally, perhaps not – had given him much to think about.

_Had_ she wanted him to see all that? He wondered. Or had it just been a reaction to her state then?

Both, he decided finally; he doubted she would have been that open had she been in her right state of mind, but on the other hand, she would never have risked any random person seeing her like this. She had shown him more of herself in that one instance than during the rest of the trip as a whole, he thought; perhaps more than she'd shown anyone in years. But while he treasured her trust to show him herself, for one moment, like a gift worth more than any riches of Alagaësia, he was shaken at seeing her like this.

So open, so _hurt_ … he marvelled that she was still walking, getting up each day, doing what she thought needed to be done. An almost brutal strength that kept her going; she forced herself on track, with pure will, like he'd never seen before. The way she returned from Helgrind now seemed him like a parable of her life. He could believe that this woman had held out under months of torture, without giving away a single secret. He doubted he could have done the same.

A bitter irony it was, he thought; it was the cursed war that did all that to her, and it was the war that provided her with the means to continue; the one goal she subordinated anything and everything else to, family, love, friendship: To see Galbatorix dead. And for that, she would give all that she had, fight to the very last breath, up to the last drop of life in her. Her determination made him proud to fight on her side and a little bit humbled as well. He had the fast resolve to see Galbatorix fall as well, but not like this.

Her life _was_ the war.

What would she be without it, he wondered; and, daring to think at what today seemed only a faraway dawn of a better tomorrow, could not suppress the sense of foreboding that for her there was no happy ending waiting in any possible outcome, no fairytale ending to the story, no well deserved happily ever after epilogue after all the chapters on the sacrifices she'd made.

For if the war did not devour her long before the end, the end itself would.

– * –

It was early morning again when Arya stirred, but naturally as dark as always. The constant night had begun to wear on him, leading him towards increasingly darker musings, but seeing Arya awaken banished the gloomy thoughts. Eragon floated the ball of light higher and looked over to her.

"How do you feel, Arya?"

She offered him a grateful smile.

"Quite a bit better, thank you." She hesitated. "Eragon – I feel I owe you an apology. The state I was in yesterday … it is no excuse, but I apologise for my undue behaviour. Also, I owe you a thank-you, for … taking care of me. _Again._"

And he knew what it would have cost her to admit that.

"You're welcome," he simply said, while preparing a hearty breakfast from the last provisions in Saphira's saddlebags.

"And think nothing of it." His smile turned mischievous. "Neither Saphira nor I will breath a word to a living soul how you threw yourself at me."

Her eyes stared at him expressionlessly; green pools, unfathomable and deep.

Then the corner of her mouth twitched. "You have learned the concept of irony, Eragon. I congratulate you heartily."

Saphira snorted loudly.

_If you two jokesters are quite done, we could think about what to do next._

"First, we will have breakfast," declared Eragon. He felt ravenous, and Arya seemed to be hungry as well. Saphira looked at them languidly, since she had been hunting and eating earlier. Her tail was swishing restlessly over the ground.

Finally, she seemingly couldn't hold back anymore and interrupted Eragon and Arya's idle conversation between bites of fruit and bread, projecting her thoughts to both of them.

_So what will we do? Another attempt to climb that mountain?_ She made no attempt to hide her rejection of that idea.

Arya shook her head. "No. We have to know more about Helgrind first."

Eragon nodded, remembering his thoughts from the other night; but then frowned.

"Where, though? Surely you are not suggesting to return to Surda or even to Ellesméra? Do you have a particular place in mind?"

Arya looked satisfied.

"Yes, I have. You told me about the order that has worshipped Helgrind for centuries. They are bound to have knowledge about the object of their belief. So, we will go to Dras-Leona and ask. We need to get supplies anyway."

She pointed to the mostly empty saddle-bag.

"We will … ask," Eragon repeated slowly, which did not impress her.

"Yes. _Ask_. Do you see a problem with that?"

"Well, you don't think that two elves and a dragon walking into Dras-Leona and demanding to know everything about Helgrind might be … conspicuous?"

Arya glanced at him in a way that clearly showed what she thought of that statement.

"Obviously, Saphira will have to remain here, hidden. And we will simply have to change our forms a bit. Did not Oromis show you how to do that?"

"Aye, he did."

Saphira started to growl in the back of her throat.

_You know what happens every time I'm not there. You know what happened _last time_. I don't like it._

"Is there an alternative, though?" Eragon mused. "If there is one, I cannot see it."

Arya nodded. "This seems the only chance to find out what we need to know. And furthermore, neither is Eragon as inexperienced as he used to be, nor will he be alone."

Eventually, Saphira grudgingly agreed to remain behind on the Grey Heath; but while Eragon and Arya packed up what little luggage they had, her tail swished moodily back and forth.

_I have a bad feeling_, she grumbled.

Eragon looked at her, securing the bags with the straps on her saddle.

"Perhaps it is Helgrind?"

_Perhaps._

But she didn't seem convinced.

– * –

It was not far to Dras-Leona; however, upon reaching the city they encountered a problem Eragon hadn't thought of.

They had walked through the outer reaches unchecked. On the crooked streets they met few; and if they did saw men, they always walked briskly with their heads bowed, and, upon spotting them, hastened on. The ramshackle buildings that lined the dirt roads were boarded-up, with only narrow streaks of light leaking out and showing they still held life. It looked to Eragon that the darkness, which had been covering the land for more than five days now, was putting everyone on edge.

But now they were standing at the high wall surrounding the heart of the city, in front of the gate where the road permeated the wall, and the gate was closed. Heavy crossed oaken beams, reinforced with iron, barred the way. On the other side was a small gatehouse, but no one was in sight.

"So what now?" Eragon asked.

His eyes moved from the gate to the wall, above which the towers of the cathedral loomed in the distance.

"Over the wall?"

It was certainly thirty feet high; he remembered its dirty yellow colour from when he'd arrived here with Brom for the first time. Now, in the darkness, it was simply grey. The night was kind to the city.

"What would be the point of appearing inconspicuous, if we were to climb over it, perhaps even aided by magic for everyone to see, Eragon?" Arya sounded slightly impatient. "Do you usually climb through the window if you visit your friend's house and find the door not opened wide?"

He suppressed a grin. "No."

"I thought not."

She entered the gateway, the short tunnel under the wall, with brisk strides, and thumped against the wood.

"Hello?

Her voice echoed clear through the night, but there was no answer. Nothing stirred. The cobbled street lay deserted in the dim glow of the lantern mounted above the hut's door. Eragon did not spot any imperial soldiers or even guards, which he thought strange. The only plausible explanation was that they arrived just on the change of guards. That would be fortunate indeed, if they couldn't get in by usual means. He conveyed that thought to Arya, and she returned her agreement of his assertion.

They had already started to turn around, when the door on the other side of the portcullis burst open, and a scruffy-looking man exited. He wore a uniform that made him belong to the city's guard. It was not particularly clean, and the man was badly shaved. The discipline among the civil guard seemed to be rather underwhelming.

He snatched the lantern from the hut, and ran over to the gates.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

A bright light cast sharp shadows onto the tunnel walls as he lifted a lantern, shining into their faces. The glare bit into Eragon eyes, but seconds later he had adapted. From his face, the light moved on to Arya, where it lingered substantially longer, until the man finally dimmed it with a blind.

"Mighty early in the morning to come trapsing to the gate, eh?"

He eyed them suspiciously, then spit on the ground.

"Bah. Early morning, highest noon. It's all one now, eh? Dark, dark, eh? And the King's having fun with who knows what, while we are stuck where sun don't shine. Get it? Eh?"

He wheezed out a laugh, then looked at them malignantly. "Well, whatcha waiting for? Shoo, shoo."

He made a banishing motion with his free hand.

"Are you not going to let us pass?" Eragon asked, only just remembering to switch to the common tongue. He had spoken with Arya and Saphira in the Ancient Language the entire time, and somewhere along the way, it had started to feel more natural to him than the language he'd grown up with.

The suspicion was back at once.

"You're not from here, eh? Of course you're not. Can see it on your misbegotten noble noses, ain't nothing like that in this hole, eh? Would have shown me that permit of yours already, otherwise, too. No one's allowed to enter the city without one, and you only get 'em from his Tábor himself, eh? So you will wait here for the new shift of guards to arrive. Have order to detain any strangers, right from Tábor himself, eh? Don't envy you. No one's pleasant in this thrice-cursed darkness. Shoulda simply gone when I told you."

He laughed again, this time decisively gleeful, as he placed his lantern on the ground in a position where the shine illumed the entire gateway and uncovered any movements. He pulled a lever on the wall next to the hut, and a second portcullis suddenly rattled down behind them, with an enormous noise and far to fast for even them to react. They were trapped.

Arya glanced at Eragon quickly in warning, advancing directly to the anterior gate. _Stay back. I will handle this._ He remained where he was, looking at her in disbelief, having discerned her intention from a few thought snippets he gathered before the connection faded away.

"Arya! You cannot possibly want – I mean, you are a princess – how – that is, will that even work?"

Her presence in his mind returned, blasting through his defences forcibly.

_Eragon!_ she snapped, irritated. _It will work, so let me _do_ my work and cease your mindless spluttering; it ill suits you. If you truly cannot think of a better topic, I will gladly point out to you in great detail just where our views of what is an__d what is not proper for me differ – later!_

He felt her concentrate on the mind of the gatekeeper before he receded. Eragon was torn between feeling incredulous and expectant, still doubting her plan and unsure of what to expect exactly. In any case, though, he felt no need to discuss morals again; he'd done that already earlier in the week, when he met Arya bathing.

He vividly remembered that day, after their first sparring match at the shores of Lake Tüdosten. He'd woken up, to find the camp empty; Arya was gone, her cot, next to his, empty while Saphira was hunting. He'd frowned, then; having gotten accustomed to waking up with her and starting the day together. Her trail had led him down to the lake, where a couple of swans had been floating on the calm blue surface near the shore.

He had spotted her further out, with her back to him; and she had apparently sensed someone on the shore as well the same instant, because her head jerked around, alarmed, having thought herself alone, but calming just as quickly once she'd seen it was him. He had settled on the banks, where the warm water rolled in small waves over the fine-grained sand, and watched her in quiet contemplation. She had been rinsing her long hair before she'd dived and resurfaced; swimming back to the shore with strong strokes, enjoying it, seemingly.

Before he'd had the chance to turn around to give her privacy, she'd already emerged from the water, completely naked, her lightly tanned skin glistening in the sun, covered with a film of water. His eyes had roamed over her form, taking in all that was her with his heart beating wildly; before he'd abruptly averted his looks and turned away, blushing, as he'd caught himself staring at her wet body. She'd been standing there and frowned, then asking what was wrong.

He had told her she was unclothed.

She had told him to stop being silly.

– * –

_She was looking at him, quizzically, before a small smile crept over her face._

"_Ah. I understand. I keep forgetting how humans insist to stay clothed at all times … to 'preserve their dignity', yes?"_

_Eragon flushed harder at the unmistakable laughter in her voice._

_Stop it! He snapped at himself, trying to force down his blush. This was ridiculous. He was no longer a naive human boy, and he'd known about Elves, of course … and he gulped as he watched her saunter from the shore over to where she had left her clothes, with an extra swerve to pass him by, a vision of perfect elegance and aesthetic beauty that no cloth obscured. _

_Was she … teasing him now?_

_Desperately sear__ching for something to say, he asked: "So you are indeed not uncomfortable?"_

_Arya's look told him all about the sense of the question._

"_If I would be, I'd have changed my body to a different form, Eragon."_

_A different form._ She was looking different now; earlier, before they had set out to the city, they both had altered their bodies, but mostly their faces. Neither would have passed for a human, so he had rounded his ears, employing what Oromis had taught about spells for moulding living things and made a few superficial alterations; Arya, however, had changed her face on a greater, deeper scale; it was less refined now, more human-like.

Her cheekbones were a tiny bit wider, her eyebrows less slanted. Her wonderful eyes had remained, though; shining from under her cape in the light of the lantern mysteriously; slightly angled like a cat's, different enough to gave her an appealing exotic look. And even though she was wearing her usual clothes underneath, consisting of trousers and a shirt, her decidedly feminine curves were showing clearly. She had no need for a dress to get the man's attention if that was her plan, he wasn't even sure he could imagine her in one. It just didn't seem like her.

Really, he guessed she would look breathtaking for humans, and indeed, the eyes of the gatekeeper were glued to her after she'd lowered the cape of her cloak. She turned her head back around once, making sure he stayed behind as he said he would; and, gazing at her altered features, it felt strange to him to see her looking like this. For while the changes did nothing to diminish his regard for her, he suddenly realised quite clearly that for him, this, in many ways, was not her. He preferred her usual looks.

Still, as she slowly approached the closed gate, she somehow seemed to turn more beautiful with each passing step, blossoming like a flower would, bit by bit opening its chalice to display the full bloom. His thoughts were with her, only revolving around her now – how could he have missed her graceful walk, expressing this alluring sensuality, or her melodious voice, flattering his ears, yes, but the sweet note within, like a beckoning call?

_He watched her when she moved; her dark indigo Yawë showing clearly on her skin and moving with her shoulder blade when she twist__ed to reach a birch leaf, which had gotten stuck at the small of her back. She had turned slightly; her strong, muscular __back arched, pushing out her chest, where water drops still sparkled in the sun. He followed in utter fascination a trail of one; it moved across her cheek, down to her chin, pausing for a moment before falling onto her chest, running until the tip of her breast, where it had teetered and plunged into nothingness__ a blink of an eye later. _

_She smiled at him, inviting; beckoning him closer, calling him to run his hands over a world of perfect forms and curves, from her slender but muscular legs, to her waist that was a bit slimmer than her pelvis, all smooth lines that seamlessly blended together, continuing up to the swell of her breasts, to her neck, to her face; just asking to be worshipped extensively._

_He suddenly was painfully aware that she was a very beautiful woman, and he very alone, and that he had natural urges, and that really there was nothing stopping him from giving in to her c__alling, stepping towards –_

_Enough!_ Eragon blasted the mental equivalent of an icy gale through his thoughts to clear his mind, while flushing deep red in embarrassment at his thoughts and almost-reaction. Somewhere in the distance he heard Saphira snorting in his thoughts. He got the faint image of a blue dragon rolling on the ground in laughter.

Eragon gritted his teeth.

_Not one word._

_I didn't say anything._

She sounded completely innocent.

_You thought it. And I mean it. Especially not to Arya. Are we agreed?_

He nervously eyed Arya. In the few seconds that had past, she'd reached the gate, thankfully without turning around and watching him almost succumb to the magic that was meant for the man on the other side of the gate. How very embarrassing.

_Oh, I am no__t sure, Eragon – 'A world of perfect curves …'? Why, that does sound most poetic, enough to rival your finest writers. I should think Arya would appreciate –_

Eragon breathed deeply, and was successful in preventing to blush anew at his imagination. Well, almost.

_Saphira?_

_Yes?_

_Shut up._

He felt her puffing out more smoke, scorching a few tips of heath. _On that nice note, I shall recede, I think._

But it went in an unspoken agreement that Saphira wouldn't tell a soul. Sadly, that didn't mean she wouldn't tease him. Eragon sighed. She would still bring that up in years.

He hadn't really thought about it before, but there were many tales of old, which spoke about the allure of the elves, the fair folk; about poor, unsuspecting mortal men who fell prey to the mind-ensnaring magic of beautiful but treacherous elf women luring them to her, to never be heard of again. It was fabricated, of course; old wives' tales, flourishing as well as any superstition, and most likely used as a way to keep all too eager young men at home; but it did contain a core of truth, since elves could appear irresistibly attracting to humans. He remembered very well his first contact with Arya, having almost lost himself in her mind then.

Eragon grudgingly agreed that it most likely would work and that it was probably the easiest way. The man on the other side of the gate would be affected incomparably more than him; and then he had most likely been alone there for a while anyway, and would jump at the chance to get some sort of female distraction, ignoring orders and opening the gate to allow her to _entertain_ him.

That didn't mean that he liked it. Especially not as the looks from the filthy man at Arya now evoked very different feelings in him, the majority of them revolving around surprisingly painful ways to die. _Especially not_ as Arya decided to take a more active role. A sharp frown appeared on his face, as he watched the scene play out in front of him.

"What is your name, friend?" she asked pleasantly.

The man behind the gate blinked, visibly flustered.

"Tenner," he managed finally.

Arya's hand sneaked through the gate, slowly closing around his hand, while she watched him from below her lashes.

"Tenner. What an interesting name. I _like_ it."

He swallowed, eyes on their linked hands.

"So tell me … _Tenner._ Would you not rather be sitting in your warm hut than standing outside?"

Tenner started to rub his temples, as if he started to get a headache. "Y-yes."

A small, secretive smile appeared on Arya's lips. "So would I. With _you_."

"You – you would."

"Of course, Tenner."

Her voice dropped to a low purr, promising tantalising hints of wicked pleasure just beyond his reach, in a way that made Eragon blush. He wanted to turn away and cover his ears, but a wayward part of him betrayed his will, staring transfixed at her show at the gate: As if by accident, the brooch holding together her cloak unclasped, opening the front of the garment, attracting his attention at once. Her slender index finger started to idly roam over the back of his hand, drawing small circles. The man made a small sound of pleasure, and swallowed heavily as she suddenly pressed herself against the gate, a bar nestled in the valley of her breasts, which tightened the fabric of her shirt and created a most lovely vision of her well-proportioned curves.

Eragon was watching from behind and the side, unable to see details, but just the mental image was enough to make his throat dry, and he quickly banished those thoughts out of his mind. It was easier said then done, since this time, they had nothing whatsoever to do with any sort of spell.

The man unconsciously licked his lips and Arya smiled – coldly, it seemed to him, but it was very much obvious that the man was in no position to react in any way, had he even noticed it.

"However, I'm on the wrong side of the gate for _that_. Can you not do something, Tenner?"

His eyes were fixed quite a bit below Arya's face; and Eragon's fingers closed around the pommel of his sword on their own accord, as the man's hand now moved quickly towards the bars to grope what he only saw, just as Arya raised her own arm and seemingly unintentionally diverted his path, taking a step away from the gate.

"The gate first, hmm?"

"Of course, of course." He stared at her lecherously. "We'll be together for some fun in a moment, eh?"

Arya nodded, satisfied, as he moved from the gate towards the wall. In less than a minute she'd convinced him to betray his orders. She turned as Eragon walked up to her, her clothes still arranged in a manner that left little to the imagination. He joined her in front of the gate, red-faced and more than a little unsettled at that blatant display; torn as whether to feel admiration or embarrassment.

The look she darted to him was amused, almost mischievous, and a little too knowing for his tastes. She hadn't seen his reactions earlier … or had she?

"Is something the matter, Eragon?"

He groaned internally. She had. He was certain of it.

"You look a bit flustered."

He looked at her, frowning. He wouldn't have thought her capable of anything like that; a foolish notion, as he realised belatedly, since all elves had this skill, of course. But it showed him that despite how well he thought he knew her, there were always new sides he hadn't seen before. It had almost been with relieve that he noticed the fleeting icy glare at the man when he turned away; promising a painful rebuke should he actually attempt anything once she was inside. That was the Arya he knew.

"I wouldn't have guessed … this," he finally admitted. "Somehow, it just didn't seem like you. You are not like that. Not usually."

It came out more sharply then he intended. He was surprised at himself, noting that his tone carried a faint accusation, and wanted to bite his tongue at once, as he saw her face going blank and the smile vanish.

"Only your ignorance allows you to say such."

She turned away from him, abruptly; staring at the gate. In the silence between them drifted faraway yells from down the road. The dim lanterns on the wall flickered in the dark, as a soft breeze blew through the gateway.

"Though it being no fault of your own, for you never saw me in better times," she amended quietly.

He made to apologise, but again, she spoke before he could.

"What does it matter."

He saw her eyes focused up the road afar, into the distance; staring on the grey and dirty cobblestones and yet seeming to not notice them at all, with a strange expression around her mouth, half twisted in a bitter line, half showing a regretful smile. Softly whispered words, barely audible, left her tongue, impended in the air.

"Mother would be so proud."

The yells sounded nearer, and the thumping of heavy boots echoed between the houses; its source still out of sight. At once, all introspectiveness fled Arya, her mood shifting again; all of a sudden, like he'd come to expect from all elves, but especially her.

"What is the fool doing there," she hissed. "We need to get passed that gate before the soldiers arrives!"

The man had reached the wall where the mechanism was situated, raising his arm, but then he'd faltered.

With a few, quick steps she was back at the gate, assuming her role again.

"Please, Tenner? For me?"

He nodded and smiled, but then his face crunched up in pain as he took an additional step towards the mechanism that moved the gate. With a moan, he pressed his hands to his head. Arya winced and uttered a quiet hiss, before her face hardened. In an instant, her entire posture changed. Eragon saw the tension in her body. She was now staring at the man to her right intently, concentrating. Then the muscles of her hand twitched, in an attempt to clench her fist; she stood completely rigid, as though she was fighting off an invisible force.

"You _will_ open the gate. _Now_."

Her voice was hard and unyielding. With visible effort, her hand closed in midair. A horrible, warbling scream left the man's mouth, as his body convulsed and he staggered. A fountain of blood rushed out of his nose.

"You will open the gate," Arya repeated, almost pleasantly, but Eragon saw that she felt anything but.

A witless smile spread over face of the man.

"I will open the gate," he repeated mechanically as he started to turn a wheel and the gate started to pull itself up, slowly. So _very_ slowly. The boots sounded louder, nearer. Eragon fancied he already heard them from just one corner away – _thump – thump – thump_

If the gate was still open when they arrived, any attempt at stealthily entering the city was doomed.

_Hurry up!_ he wanted to scream, but he knew it was very much futile. The mechanism worked as it always did, leisurely pulling the gate up into the wall, completely uncaring about their need for haste. Arya, however, seemed to be perfectly calm. She ducked under the gate, once it was pulled up halfway, and beckoned him to follow her.

"Thank you," she said to the gatekeeper, standing now inside the city, with no one hindering their entrance.

"And now, you will pull up the other gate as well, close the front gate again, clean yourself up and behave as you usually do when the guards arrive."

"I will pull up the other gate as well, close the front gate again, clean myself up and behave as I usually do when the guards arrive."

Eragon watched silently as the gate rattled down again and the man returned in his hut, still a bloody mess and giggling quietly. Not a second later, a squad of guards turned the corner, marching in step.

They captain raised his hand in a snappy salute as they passed the two of them, and Arya acknowledged him with a mildly condescending nod, which he was quite obviously used to. Eragon wondered how she knew just how to behave, but then again, he figured she _had_ spent a longer time amongst humans than he had even been alive.

"Why?" he finally asked softly as the boots had died away and no longer resounded from the houses lining the cobbled street. He didn't need to explain what he meant.

"He was under a powerful spell which allowed him to open the gate solely on a captain's order or Tábor personally. Otherwise, he would have done it for me."

She flicked off a small speck of dust from her cloak.

"I didn't notice it at first; it was done by a competent spellcaster. We have to be careful, they are most likely still here. In any case, I had to break the spell's hold on him, and there was no time to do it gently."

He recognised the tone; the precise and short words … it was the hill, above the burning town. It was when she'd spoken about her time in Gil'ead. It was every single battle, every time she distanced herself from the happenings, in order to not go mad from what she'd experienced.

"So what happened?"

He thought he already knew, but he wanted to hear it.

"I tore apart his mind."

Merciless blunt, a direct answer to a direct question, and he had expected and wanted nothing less. He felt no desire to hide in ignorance. His conscience and the heavy burden of the knowledge of what he did to achieve what he wanted was a part of what kept him from becoming like Galbatorix. And so, he said nothing at that, only darting Arya a silent look, which she returned with nod.

She understood.

He stroke up a brisk pace. "We will have to hurry. Sooner or later someone will notice." And wondered whether or not it was a good thing that he sounded just like her.

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_**I thank you all for your many, many reviews. They sure helped me in this last month where I was stuck at the gate-scene. I think I responded to everyone I could. Thanks!**_

_**Next chapter (again): **__**Choices**__**.**_


	6. Note & Synopsis

Well, I'm not dead. No, really. I was only buried alive under a few tons of RL.

And the story isn't abandoned either. If the new chapter isn't there yet, it should be by the time you're done reading this note. Far too many months, a few headaches, RL crap, a writer's block, and a plothole later. Can you believe that I had it already ready to post back in November, when I noticed the Big Ugly Plothole of Doom, at the very last instant? Yeah :/ Two months to fix that alone.

But on to the good news: There'll be regular updates! For an entire month! I thought on a weekly basis? Where I live, it's Sunday, so let's say, (barring stupid FF. net deciding to refuse my uploads or something, I think it's a little unstable, currently) every Sunday there'll be a new update, throughout February, until we are done with Helgrind and the first story climax. How does that sound, as a small attempt to make amends on my part?

It's possible because I had to split 'Choices' into four parts, as it turned out to be a monster – 35k words or 80(!) pages in Word. Completely crazy.

Anyway, below's also a synopsis of what happened so far, if you don't want to re-read it all; since I'm assuming most have forgotten what happened. At least, that's what usually happens to me when reading stories.

Also_, SocialBunny_, if you're reading this … I'd still like you to Beta read the story, assuming you want to. You've been invaluable. Drop me a note?

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**Synopsis of chapters 1 through 4**

Two and a half week have passed since Eragon Arya have left the Varden at the Burning Plains – with their friendship mended again, and Elva healed.

Equipped with a new sword, a gift from Nasuada that once belonged to her father, Eragon and Arya fly on Saphira's back first to Tronjheim, following the dwarves cortège and attending the burial for King Hrothgar afterwards. From the Beor Mountains, they continue in a direct line to Helgrind, to fulfil Eragon's promise to Roran and rescue Katrina. Roran, despite his angry protests, remained behind, as Arya was adamant on accompanying Eragon (reasoning that she is more capable than Roran, and that Roran might act rash and irrational, jeopardising their lives); and Saphira could not carry more than three persons.

While Arya muses about Eragon, Saphira spots soldiers in the distance, and Arya and Eragon use the cover of a forest to scout their intentions. They find them to be burning down the little village of Rak, which leads to a disagreement between. She reminds him of their mission and wants to use the time the soldiers are occupied to escape unseen, but Eragon can't watch the soldiers killing the villagers and burning down the town, remembering Carvahall.

He ignores Arya and enters the village, fighting the soldiers and saving many villagers. Arya joins him, as she will not let him fight alone, but their intervention have consequences when a magician accompanying the soldiers is able to escape, presumably bringing knowledge of the incident to King Galbatorix.

In a bad mood, all three companions go to sleep that night, until Arya challenges him to a duel a day later, over which they settle their differences. Eragon apologises, but explains why he reacted that way, telling her the story of Carvahall. Arya responds by telling him how she lost her father, the Elven King Evandar, to show him that she understands; but that his actions still were rash. Eragon promises her to not take any more unnecessary risks – for her sake.

Despite the additional risk of the spy on the loose, they continue, cautiously flying a small circuit, and reach Helgrind a few days later. Upon their arrival, they get into a heavy storm. Unnatural thick thunderclouds are spreading from Helgrind, so thick that it is as dark as in the middle of the night; and when Saphira crashes, but luckily comes out almost unharmed, it is clear that they cannot enter Helgrind the way they thought – the rapidly changing currents are too strong for Saphira to fly them up to the entrance.

Eragon tries to reach Katrina with his mind, but it doesn't work; in fact, he almost loses himself in Helgrind and Saphira panics as for an instance their bond is severed – not like when they are very far apart, but completely. For her, Eragon was gone. Arya saves him, without explaining how she did it.

As Arya finds a way up, they leave Saphira behind and start to climb on the mile-high mountain, aided and shielded by their magic. After a few close calls, they arrive safely on top after six hours of climbing, splitting up and searching for the entrance. Eragon finds an eerie forest of stone that strangely enough holds a single flower in its centre that seems to call to him, and he takes a petal of it with him. Arya, in turn, found and followed the trace of the last, green, dragon egg.

However, while they are separated, it becomes apparent that Helgrind has a strange reaction to all things magic, severely hampering their ability to reach one another with their minds; as well as feeling unnatural, cold and just all around _wrong_. The forest invokes an impalpable fear in Eragon; and he is glad to meet up with Arya again.

She shows Eragon the trail, a faint, almost unnoticeable, residue of magic. Eragon marvels that she didn't miss it, but Arya tells him that for her, it's easy, since she grew up surrounded by magic in Ellesméra – and Eragon realises he still has much to learn.

They follow the trail along, through one peak of Helgrind and onto a narrow ledge, from where they can see the entrance of a cave – the place they have been searching for. However, in between is nothing – no handhold, no place to rest their feet – and so, Eragon jumps.

A sudden gust of wind steers him off track, and misses, falling down from Helgrind. He uses magic to slow his fall, but there is no way back up. He asks Arya to continue searching, and she promises that she will find Katrina. Eragon, however, struggles to continue the slowing down, as the energy needed is eventually too much for him and he loses consciousness.

When he wakes again, Saphira has taken care of him, and more than three days have passed. Arya hasn't returned. Eragon waits for her anxiously, and she finally returns – four and a half days after they started to climb Helgrind. She is completely exhausted, and almost collapses. Eragon takes care of her, and they share a quiet moment under Saphira's wing, until eventually she starts to tell him about the cave – and how she found nothing, only wandering around in circles through a maze, always ending back up at the cave. Agitated, she swears to find Katrina, to redeem herself, and Eragon, seeing how important it is for her, relents.

He gets her to rest, at least for a day, and while she sleeps, he ponders Arya's fate. The next morning (the dark still hasn't let up), they decide to try their luck in Dras-Leona, where, Arya reasons, the priests of the cathedral worshipping Helgrind should have more information.

However, the gates are closed, and they are denied entrance, and when Arya's attempt to use her elfin nature and bewitch the guard to open the gate for her fails, due to a spell under which the guard has been put, she realises she has to use the last resort and destroys the guards mind, since she has no time to break the spell gently.

Now free to enter the town, they start walking towards the cathedral.


	7. Choices, Part I

**A/N: **Nothing but an ugly monk is mine. Also, a big thanks to JWH, who listened to my rants patiently and looked over the chapter; and to you, if you're still sticking with my little tale. Nothing to add other than that – although ... any Arya/Fäolin shippers out there? :P

You might recognise a few things in here from my Oneshot _Reflections_ ...

* * *

**5. Choices: Trapped**

"_Do I have to, Mother?"_

"_It is made from he finest silk of the Nóttavefr-worm, harvested in Ceris. It suits a princess, so I fail to see where your problem resides," she said somewhat coldly, or at least that was how it sounded to Arya._

_It wasn't so much the gown itself; it was nice, simple, as any elfin dress, only valuable through the means it was made or through the fabric it was made of. It was what this gown stood for that made her want to run and hide._

_But eleven-year-old Arya didn't protest any further; it would have made no difference. It never did. It only served to make Mother angry. She wanted her in the gown, and she would see her in it in the end. _

_She had begun to pick her battles; one night in this gown, even if it rendered her unable to run, and a meal in the company of boring grown-ups who only ever spoke about politics while she had to smile, was an acceptable price if she bargained her freedom on other days with it. She nodded to the elf who began to dress her. Her mother nodded as well, apparently satisfied._

"_I have to hurry, child. The final preparations for Skemmestnót need to be overseen, we will have many an important guest in Ellesméra tonight."_

_She stroked over Arya's hair with her hand, fleetingly, in an absentminded gesture, before she left the room. Arya's eyes watched her retreat in the dressing mirror made of enchanted silver above the small table, in front of which she sat. Mother was in constant hurry, or so it seemed._

_The other woman began to move around, and Arya obediently lifted her arms whenever she was told, politely, of course; each time followed by words of apology. She, in turn, would nod graciously, and the elf would resume her task._

_Neria was her name; she was of the House of Miolandra, like any elf helping with the small everyday things in Tialdarí Hall. Of course, they were no servants; Miolandra was the House of Guardians, and while they did guard the forest, the term had long since undergone a broadening, and it was an honour to be chosen to assist with work in the court, sparsely though it was._

_Arya distracted herself with thoughts about Neria to shorten the time; like how when she had been younger, Neria had so often played with her while Mother was absent on court duties. She had been there for as long as she could think; and Arya liked the elf. But she took her position very seriously, so there was no chance that she would let her go if she was anything less than perfect. If only she would hurry up!_

_An hour later she was wandering through the long and winding corridors of Tialdarí Hall. Like with all parts, it was made of trees sung into the shape desired by the singer, sturdy trunks, stripped of their bark, forming a firm wall; brown, with meandering, wavy grains and so wonderfully warm and alive to the touch, Arya thought, as she stuck her fingers out, and let them slide over the wood in passing._

_The floor in this part was forest soil, a soft layer of fallen pine needles that covered the ground and felt magnificent beneath her bare feet. Other elves liked moss or grass, but this was her favourite; it had a lovely smell, so fresh, and a little bit spicy, and a marvellous texture._

_As she looked down, she grudgingly admitted to herself that both her mother and Neria knew what they had been doing. The hem of her snow-white gown twined round her ankles, and the pure white engendered a powerful contrast to her ebony hair, which framed her face and was artfully divided into different layers, half of it up, held in place by a fine silver circlet around her forehead, with little diamonds in it that glimmered like the stars in the night sky over Ellesméra, the other half down, falling in a long wave down her shoulders. _

_Neria had spent a small eternity just on that._

_She jumped over a small brook that suddenly crossed the forest floor, and paused, watching the pine needles that were carried away by the stream, spinning and drifting in the water. She did love the celebrations … if only she wasn't expected to show up at the Noble Dinner that was hosted by the royal house beforehand._

_Later, when everyone moved away from the table into the meadow, it was fun. The dancing, the laughing, the boisterous atmosphere, as everyone celebrated and praised the summer … Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all._

_Then again, that was what she hoped every year._

_She sighed as she continued onwards, the trees becoming rougher and the corridor twisting around them … and suddenly, she was standing in the forest, without ever having passed either door or threshold. In a final line of trees, two beeches formed an archway, an elf positioned on either side. She approached them, and waited._

_They turned, and announced to the clearing beyond: "Her Highness, Arya Dröttningu."_

_She walked past them, onto the clearing, where every elf besides her mother had risen; and the next almost quarter of an hour, she had to answer to the ritual, losing track of all the noble elves from all over the forest; until finally, the last elf seemed to have greeted her._

_The clearing was the crest of a small hill, and a long table was set out in the centre under the open skies, bedecked with flowers in blue and red, the colours of Mother's House Eweádth: forget-me-not and love-in-a-mist and cupid's dart, love-lies-bleeding and dragon's blood, and whatever else there grew in Du Weldenvarden, it was there; the white linen cloth already filled with countless different fares. She took her rightful place on Mother's side, listening with mild disinterest to the exchange of pleasantries between the various elf Lords and Ladies, while she looked up and down the table._

"_How fares the Varden, Queen Islanzadí? I heard the Vinr Älfakyn relinquished?"_

"_Quite so, Lord Methadr. He wishes to pursue a personal matter, which would not be acceptable were he still duty-bound."_

_And here were the politics. Mother was speaking to an elf with sharp, aquiline features, who nodded now, somewhere to her right._

"_Yes, and such a tragedy it is …it was the right decision, of course. He more than anyone else has earned the right to seek out those that betrayed him … may the stars watch over him and his quest. But do tell, who is his successor?"_

"_Weldon, one of Brom's closest advisors. Have you heard of him?"_

_Her eyes met those of another elf, directly across from her, while the talk continued._

"_Indeed I have not … far be it from me to question Brom's choice, but are you sure he chose well? We can ill afford a weak leader when the Varden are still as fragile as they are now…"_

_He looked to be fairly young. In fact, he seemed to be the youngest by far, except for her, of course. He had light blue eyes that seemed to twinkle in constant laugh and sandy blond hair, which fell past his shoulders. He smiled at her, and she smiled back; a genuine smile._

_Throughout the feast, her gaze returned to him every now and then; and each time it did, she felt like both were sharing a secret knowledge, maybe a hidden amusement about the antics of Lord Methadr when Blagden flapped onto his __plate, or perhaps a small joke at the expense of Rhunön, who set there, scowling at everyone, because Arya had convinced her to come. _

_And when finally the night began to fall and the feasting part was drawing to a close, and everyone began to rise, she sought him out at last; found him standing apart from the rest, in peaceful solitude._

_He started on the greeting once he saw her, bu__t she waved him off._

"_I am sure I already greeted you." Then she looked down. "Though I fear I cannot remember your name. I also can't seem to remember you?"_

_He smiled kindly._

"_Allow me a simply Good Evening then, Princess. And I daresay it would be a matter of impossibility to remember each and every name. Especially as you could not have known me from before, for tonight's the first time I have to honour to attend the celebration."_

_She smiled hesitantly, glad that he wasn't offended; watching him bow. _

"_Fäolin, of the House Miolandra."_

"_Neria?"_

_The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it, leaving her embarrassed once more. But he never laughed at her outburst, just answered her question in all seriousness._

"_My older cousin. She told me much about you, Princess, but no words could ever make up for meeting you myself. You shame every other elf in that gown. It is an honour to meet you."_

_She felt strange, then, suddenly exceptionally glad that Neria had put that much work into it and that she was wearing it now; even if she wasn't quite able to tell why. He smiled at her again, and her heart seemed to skip a beat._

"_The pleasure is all mine," she said, beaming at him. "And you should not praise the gown, but your cousin; she alone made it to what it is now."_

_He laughed, a quiet, clear sound._

"_That I will do when I see her, Princess. Yet I feel that no matter how great her skill, would it not be you who was wearing it, the beauty would be less for it."_

_Never had she felt like this. His words struck something deep inside her, or so she felt; and almost missed his question, when he extended a hand and asked kindly: "Would you give me the honour of a dance with you?"_

_Arya took it gladly, and they began what would be the first of many dances together; her gown flowing around her like a white cloud. She would not let up, but he didn't seem to mind; he had time for her and so they danced the night away. Had not magic itself touched this very moment? And here, in the very heart of Du Weldenvarden, mayhap that wasn't so impossible after all._

_An uncertain amount of time later found both sitting in the grass and talking, Arya enjoying herself like she had never before on Skemmestnót, and it was not hard to make out the young elf next to her as the prime reason for that._

_His finger traced a flower in the grass, though never picking it, while he spoke._

"_Is it not lovely? Just a common buttercup, yet perfect in its own way – it is what it is, and never wants to be more; and that is makes it perfect. And then look at us; we elves always try our very hardest to achieve what this little flower possesses from the day it blossoms for the first time, without doing anything at all._

"_And whilst, of all the races in Alagaësia, we are the one who has gotten farthest on this way, we never will be as perfect as this little flower; and it would be arrogant to presume as much. The simple reason that we try means we can never achieve this perfection we seek – for indeed, for us, there always will be more, a next step, and another one after that. This is what defines us and sets us apart from the flower; it's what makes us more and less at the same time._

"_The buttercup, though – not the wisest elf could add aught, or take it away, without making it less than what it is now. And that is the case with every flower, you see? It is the reason I can spent hours and hours just sitting and watch the flowers open when the first ray of sunshine touches the bloom."_

_Arya nodded earnestly, and Fäolin smiled, rising._

"_Come. I want to show you something."_

_He held out his hand again, and Arya put her small fingers trustingly in his, looking up at him, happily; and together, they meandered away from the celebration, through the clearing, towards the far edge. The air was warm, and the forest full of life; in every breath and every step Arya took so very full of an overflowing love of life, like it only ever was in those Grey Nights, when the sun barely went below the horizon, and the days in-between seemed to stretch on forever._

_The noise from the celebration slowly died down, and finally became just another noise within the concert of the forest at night. He looked up, and she followed his gaze; up into the clear sky, with thousands upon thousands of little, twinkling stars, and a full, yellow moon that was inching slowly over the top of the black pines._

"_Here."_

_Fäolin pointed to an old oak that was standing a bit apart from the other trees that lined the clearing. And then she saw what he meant. A vine twined around the tree, with a few, half-opened blooms; black on the outside, as black as the night. Arya knew what they were._

_They were Myrkenen, the Blooms of Darkness. The plant was a Morning Glory, albeit a rare and strange variety of its kind; it could only exist here in Du Weldenvarden, where there was enough magic in the land, the animals, and the trees to sustain it because it never bloomed in the morning, like all its brothers and sisters did, but instead only ever opened its chalice at night, and only one night at that: only on Skemmestnót, the shortest night, the night of midsummer._

"_Let us wait for the moon," Fäolin whispered._

_They sat in silence, listening to the forest; grasshoppers chirping, accompanied by the trills of a nightingale, which sat in the oak. And then, the silver light of the moon touched the first blossoms, and the petals rustled audibly to her sharp ears and unfurled, opening wide, displaying the purest, darkest blue._

_Fäolin rose and began to sing. He had a clear tenor voice, pleasing the ear, and sung a simple, a beautiful, sweet melody, which seemed to spur the nightingale, and both sang together. He moved towards the tree where now dozens of Myrkenen blossomed, and Arya could make out some words._

_O! Myrkenest, bláreflur, í du úbira, skína, ljéma! _

_Atra'í gjöfte, bidha'no fra_

_Onr blómvalis opná, _

_Opnard!, eom ono gala éka …_

_O! Myrkenen, bluest flower, in the darkness, shine, shine!_

_May one gift I beg from you_

_Open your bloom,_

_Be opened!, to you I sing …_

_He traced a finger along one flower's throat, and sang; the bloom opened further, and then the vine moved towards his hand, caressing it, and parted with the flower, one of its precious jewels. Fäolin's song faded slowly into the night, in a last, haunting note, and he returned with the flower carefully resting on his palm._

_He held it out for her._

"_For me?"_

_Arya's eyes were wide with wonder. He looked at her then, perhaps with the hint of a smile at her childlike awe. He moved closer, and spoke with a conspiratorial air, as though he was about to share with her the secret of the world._

"_You can plant it into the earth, right tomorrow, if you like – it will take roots, as I sang it from the vine. And furthermore, the magic I used changed it – look, the blue in the chalice is much more pronounced, and it fades into black towards the corolla. It is still a morning glory, but you will not find its like anyplace else, and it will open whenever you ask it to, not only just once a year."_

_Arya giggled a little at his antics, but beamed at his next words._

"_It is something for you – just for you."_

"_Oh Fäolin, thank you. It is the most perfect and lovely flower in the whole world."_

"_As are you, Princess."_

_He smiled at her once more, and her heart fluttered a little._

"_For tonight, though, it will go here."_

_Fäolin took it from her hands and stuck the pedicel in her hair above her circlet, midnight blue in ebony, and together they sat in the clearing, and watched the moon take its path, athwart the black trees of Du Weldenvarden._

They moved through the streets as fast they could.

Early morn's traffic started to fill the city, gloomy oil lanterns showing shadowy forms of people hastening through the streets: traders and regular townsfolk on they way to the daily market or their shops, with carts groaning under the load of fruits, meat and other groceries. As it appeared, the war had not yet reached the Empire; at least not here, though the darkness certainly failed not in its effect to the people either.

Instead of the usual hubbub of shouting traders and cursing cart drivers, an almost eerie silence hung over the city, and the mood of the people they passed was sombre. Even the hordes of beggars, which Eragon remembered from his last, ill-fated visit with Brom, seemed sparser. He eyed the lurking figures in the shadows between angled walls and shady alleyways, but they remained there, never venturing out into the open. Apparently, not even their fine elfin clothes promising wealth could overcome the general sense of fear and unease.

On the other hand, the hygiene was as poor as before. Eragon had to take care of his steps and stalk around indefinable dirt and small heaps of stinking muck. As they walked on, the houses grew bigger, though the stench never left completely; sticking to everything with dogged tenaciousness. He remembered that last time it had gotten better, but now, after his transformation, it was almost unbearable, and he wondered how the people could abide to live here for any longer than they absolutely had to.

Eragon started to yearn for the quiet, unagitated bustle of Ellesméra, with its houses of trees, in midst of the nature, with the dark pines and sunny clearings; and had to forcibly stop himself from breaking out into a full run away from the houses and towards the cathedral, whose towers were high enough to be constantly seen over the roofs, even as they got closer.

– * –

The building was every bit as hideous as he remembered. It was only one part of the Cathedral Close, which included the monastery, a cloister and a few other structures he couldn't make out; but it towered above them all, looming over the entire city like a crouching beast, a grim monument in stone. High up the towers stretched, soon lost to his sharp eyes in the ever-present night, the heavy clouds, or perhaps both. The darkness swallowed most of the embellishments on the façade as well, as they crossed the circular forecourt, but he recalled the snarling gargoyles, grotesque beasts frozen in silent screams, demonic figurines and kings and rulers of old; tall, beautiful and cold.

This was not a friendly place. Not hope was the foundation of this religion, but fear. Eragon stared at the massive cathedral on the other end of the forecourt, a dark shadow in the night, and suddenly, just like Orik's puzzle and the path up Helgrind had revealed itself to his refined senses, it _shifted_ – as though his sight was suddenly clearer somehow, showing him things deeper, things beyond; things he would have missed otherwise.

He stared at the cathedral. Impossible, it seemed, to exactly point out what part had changed. Angles suddenly seemed simply … _wrong_, unmatched; proportions off. His eyes roamed the front, discovering oddities where there couldn't rightly be any. Weren't those geometric structures that simply _did not exist_? Lines connecting edges to physically impossible shapes? Yet somehow, the sum of all these parts were still the cathedral he knew.

As soon as he tried to fixate a single spot, the edges blurred and flickered. He felt unable to handle it. It was as if his mind simply balked at trying to process what it absorbed, not made to understand the forms it saw. They flipped over, were neither-one-nor-the-other, and he began to feel violently sick.

He felt like his gaze was too much, too clear. It better should have been left unseen, for him, for everyone. The world spun, as though it might, had he been not much used to heights and staring from great altitude into a deep ravine, and he fought back the urge to gag. The building slid in and out of focus, in and out of existence and reality, he blinked involuntarily and –

And everything was back to normal.

Eragon stared at the building in front of him, which looked dark and forbidding, but completely ordinary. Had he only imagined it? He felt completely fine. Had he even really felt ill? Chancing a look at Arya showed him no reaction. It probably had been a trick of his mind. He shook his head, and moved towards the main portal of the church. She hesitated.

"Are you coming?"

She ran her fingers through her hair, then nodded.

"Let us get it over with, then."

They entered the iron-bound door. It swung open noiselessly, following Eragon's push with little resistance. They walked down the church aisle, under the watch of the soulless eyes from statues placed between the windows, grey specks in the dark. The few lit torches and candles cast long, sinister shadows over the stone walls and the floor, scurrying back and forth, life-like, when the air moved the flames.

An oppressive silence weighed down on the empty rows of benches. Even their steps seemed to die away, far too fast, as if there was something in here swallowing each and any sound so that nothing might disturb the grave quiet.

The wind organ behind the altar was silent. Eragon slowly turned, looking along the nave, back to the door they came through, in the church's narthex nothing more than a black spot in the darkness. They were alone.

_All hail, thee who entered. All hail, lost souls in search of the light._

Eragon spun back around, but the aisle was empty. Bemused, he ran a hand over his face. Hadn't he heard someone? Though perhaps no one had spoken, after all. He craned his neck, staring at the vaulted ceiling resting on the slim piers, far, far above his head. The peculiar acoustics made it hard to tell.

_Did you hear something, Arya?_

Her lips appeared as a thin line, barely visible in the half-light.

_Yes._

He shook his head, once more moving to face the stone altar the aisle lead toward. The silence and constant dark was getting to him. The lonely cathedral only seemed to amplify it.

"And a fair good morn, my noble Lord and Lady."

Arya gasped, and the blade of the sword shrieked as it was ripped from its sheath. Eragon assumed a fighting stance at once with his own sword drawn, copying her.

Directly in front of them, where just seconds ago only empty space had been, now a priest stood, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere. He stared at them with a peculiar expression from underneath his hood, a strange half-smile that seemed unsettling rather than reassuring; playing around the corner of his mouth in a way that gave it a furtive edge and made Eragon uncomfortable.

Despite that, he pushed his sword slowly back into its sheath, as the monk was hardly a real threat; but how he could have managed to sneak up on them remained a mystery to Eragon. It was nigh impossible to surprise not one but two elves, and that he'd done it anyway was unsettling.

He stood there in silence, while Eragon surveyed his appearance, tensely. The monk was short and portly, and wore a simple habit made of coarse-spun wool; but Eragon noted its deep, inky black, almost gleaming in the light from the torch on the pier next to him. It was an expensive colouring to dye wool with, due to the great amount of dye needed to achieve this dark tone.

The most remarkable item of his clothes was a ruff, enwrought with precious golden threads. The index finger of his left hand was missing, and as he moved, Eragon realised he was missing his right leg as well, having a peg leg instead.

"I am your humble servant," he said, bowing obsequiously. "How can I be of assistance?"

His voice was oily and Eragon disliked it immediately. It reminded him of the traders he had met in Morn's tavern, many moons ago, praising the king and his deeds. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps the sinister atmosphere of the dark church weighing on him, but Eragon felt more and more uncomfortable in his presence and, without waiting for Arya to react, pressed ahead.

"We heard of your Order, monk. It is said to worship the mountain know as Helgrind. Is it possible to enter it?"

He heard Arya drawing in a hissed breath, while the monk moved slowly around them, smoothly, almost slidingly, belying his crippled appearance. Eragon had to turn his head to follow him.

"'Tis a dangerous bourn to have, oh yes." The smile had a sly edge to it. "One does not tread lightly on a journey Helgrind-bound, when all that it offers is darkness and death. Far better to leave your thoughts about the Dark Gates in here once and for all and return to where you came from. Go, friends, and don't look back. Yours will be the benefit."

Under the feeble guise of friendly concern, all Eragon spotted was the bearings of a calculating mind. Ill inclined to play any games, his answer was shorter than even he had intended.

"We thank you for your concern," he responded flatly. "So there is a way inside. How?"

The servile smile never changed.

"Perhaps not, perhaps so. Who can say, in the end? The secret Helgrind holds are manifold and mysterious, even to us. What is your purpose there?"

The question posed was uttered lightly, just in passing, like a natural continuation of his thoughts and Eragon had to catch himself, even as he wanted to answer. Too urging the whisper in his ear to answer the query; setting him at ease, an insouciant want to respond to an innocent question. Why would he hesitate? There was no harm there –

With a snarl, Eragon cleared his thoughts, staring at the monk in ire. Skilled magic, invading his mind, trying to ensnare his senses and draw the truth from his lips – the monk was anything but a simple monk. This shattered his already strained nerves.

_Eragon, no!_

Not heeding her, he retaliated, pushing against the mind of the man in an attempt of his own to forcefully rip from it that which he was unwilling to tell – and encountered strong mental defences. The monk staggered, but his stronghold around his mind yielded not.

Eragon pushed harder, gathering more magic, making the air crackle between them. The monk dropped to his knees, his hood sliding back, revealing two small and beady eyes staring at him hostilely, and a fringe of hair on an otherwise bald head.

"We do not like strangers. Especially not such ones that stick their noses in things that are no concerns of theirs," he hissed, then gasped for air, clutching his throat. Eragon stared down at him, dominated by one thought only, _he almost gained control over my mind!_, a sudden breeze extinguished the flame from the torch, leaving a spot of darkness that seemed to cling to Eragon, on the fringe of his vision, he saw Arya staring at him wide-eyed –

Suddenly he was flung backwards, and the monk dropped to the ground. Arya stood between them. He looked up at her, confused. She had never uttered a spell out loud.

"Eragon! What _are_ you doing?"

She showed no outwardly sign of any particular emotion, but he had learned to read her well. She was furious.

"I –" he faltered. What _had_ he been doing? He felt completely on edge. Did he almost –

Eragon slowly pushed himself off the cold ground, not looking at her.

_She stopped me from seriously injuring him or worse_, he thought.

"Thanks, Arya," he murmured and gazed at her as though to find absolution or some measure of forgiveness in her face, but her eyes held no sympathy.

"I did not stop you for the sake of your consciousness, to let you rest better at night. Tell me, Eragon, do you derive pleasure from breaking minds? I assure you, it is no enjoyable task, unless you are twisted beyond any redemption."

His eyes snapped up again, looking indignant at the thought.

"No! Why would you –"

"And yet you would attack him like that, showing all the tact of a rampaging dragon, and had your rashness cost me any other possible way to gain information," she interrupted him. "Explain yourself. I cannot, for the life of me, understand your actions."

Eragon felt his temper flare. There was nothing to explain. He knew she was right, and that knowledge only made it worse. He felt no desire to explain his edgy state to her, and instead drew himself up angrily. Arya's eyes held a warning, but he ignored it.

"I suppose you would have done better?" he asked, scowling at her darkly.

She was unmoved, regarding him coolly.

"Yes. Eragon, I would have. It was my plan. I knew what I wanted to do. You, quite obviously, did not."

He clenched his fists and spat a curse, turning away from her. Arya was _infuriating_. No one else except Saphira and perhaps Angela would've spoken to him like that. But Arya would always find something to criticise, it seemed, and he tried to ignore the little voice that told him that she usually was in the right whenever she did so.

"And I promised you. I promised I would find a way. Have you forgotten so soon?"

He spun back around, staring at her irately.

"And so you did. So what?"

He knew he had gone too far the moments the words left his mouth. Her eyes widened, for the fraction of a second, then they grew cold and distant. He regretted what he'd said almost instantly, especially when he knew how serious she, as much as any elf, would take a promise like that, regardless of the Ancient Language. A _Heit Älfakyn_, an Elf's Promise, people called it. In Brom's tales, he recalled, it had been a mystical and wonderful thing to be granted, because it was never broken, and as he had learned from Oromis, for once, humans had had it right.

But at the same time he felt defiant, and unwilling to apologise; in a muddled mess of anger, mostly at himself, shame and trepidation awaiting her reaction, clear from the anger in her features.

But it never came. Instead she regarded him intently and in silence, for a long while, his clenched fists and angry posture, and somehow this, her still, admonishing scrutiny, made him feel even worse. And then, as if to testify her control and his lack thereof, her own anger vanished from her face completely, without a trace, and her look softened.

"You still have much to learn, Eragon."

Eragon felt all his anger evaporate at those words, as Arya unbeknown to her echoed his own thoughts, from when they had stood atop Helgrind. All at once, the sole things remaining were dejection and bitterness at the truth in her statement.

It sounded spoken to him as much as a reminder to herself, gently, and that hurt more than any insult she could have thrown his way, for he knew well what it meant. That again, she had misjudged him, but for once overestimated. That she had held him at too high a standard, one he failed to meet, but so dearly wanted to: herself.

He looked down, staring at the floor, examining the patterns in the black and white stone. One plate was cracked. It looked almost like a spider's web. He traced the lines with his foot.

"I apologize, Arya," he said so softly it was barely audible. He knew that Arya would hear it. He raised his head again, and met her gaze, her green eyes inscrutable. "If you will have my apology. I'm sorry for letting my anger get the better of me, and acting rash; and for belittling your promise. I appreciate what you do. Never doubt that."

She said nothing, only looked at him thoughtfully again, and he felt his heart sink and turned to stare into the darkness, away from her. Realistically, he knew he did not have her expertise. He figured, that as an ambassador for thirty years, she would have a feeling for gauging persons and getting information out of them they didn't want to part with._ You still have much to learn._ It was the correct assertion, certainly, and it was the one thing he did not want to hear, not from her: that it wasn't his fault, for he could not possibly have her skills, which came but through experience, and that thusly he was excused. For while indeed that would have been the truth, it wasn't the demand he had on himself.

"Good. I accept your apology. You will do better next time, then. I expect nothing less, Eragon."

And Arya was understanding. His eyes snapped back up, astonished, thankful, and the rebuke died in his throat. No one else except Saphira and perhaps Oromis knew him like that; not even Roran, not anymore. She looked back at him, placid, now, green eyes barely visible in the night, but, and he felt that, as surely she stood here, knowing. _Because I am the same._

He startled. Had she said that? Or was his mind playing tricks on him again? She gave no indication of having said anything, and he decided to let it rest, only nodding his thanks and receiving the same in return; and so was the matter cleared and put behind them.

"That still leaves us with him."

Arya followed his look, peering disgustedly at the portly man lying on the ground, unconscious.

"He knows something. That much I was able to glean. We have no time to start looking for someone else, so the only way –"

"_Pssst._"

A sudden shadow broke away from the dark wall. Both Eragon and Arya had instantly become alert and drawn their swords.

"Who is there?" Arya asked in the common tongue, switching back from the Ancient Language they had used to speak with one another, as they were wont to when it was just the two of them.

"Name's Mark."

A small form peeled itself out of the shadow, looking quickly around. He wore the same garb the monk had, but was missing the ruff.

"You're elves, aren' you? Brother Radoslav said jus' elves use _the language_, an' I heard it!"

Eragon felt Arya tense next to him. Her sword gleamed in the light of the lone torch on the pier, as the blade rose higher, threateningly. His voice trailed off as he noticed, and his tone turned from curious to frightened. He shrunk back, until he was backed against a row of benches and could move no further.

"Wha' – no, please I was jus' – don' kill me!"

Eragon felt concerned as well, although not because he thought she might kill him. He felt her weaving a complex spell, whose purpose eluded him.

_What are you _doing_, Arya?_

_Making sure we do not acquire more problems than those already ours. He will not remember._

Eragon looked from her face, furrowed in concentration, to the dark form in the habit. The bulky garment smoothed the features, hiding his build, but he seemed rather short, almost as if –

With two quick strides, Eragon was over at his side and yanked down his hood, revealing the head of a child. His dark eyes were wide in fear, as he stared at the strangers, his gaze locked on the sword; pressed against the side of the benches.

"Please!"

_He is but a child, Arya!_

It made her pause, but only for a second.

_We cannot allow him to go around telling what he thinks he knows to anyone he pleases._

_He might be able to help us. Easier than the monk. If he can, what does it matter if he tells someone? We will be gone long since._

Her look was doubtful.

_What would a mere child know that is of importance to us? We have no time to waste, Eragon!_

Eragon cocked his head.

_Let me. Children I know._

She said nothing, but after a long, tense moment, he felt her spell-weaving cease and she gave a thoughtful, acquiescing nod and stepped aside a little, while Eragon knelt down in front of the child.

"We mean you no harm. Mark, was it?"

"Yes."

His voice quivered as he bit his lip, and Eragon saw curiosity wage a fierce war with the fear on his face. Eragon moved a little, so that his face caught the torchlight fully.

"How did you know we were here?" he prodded gently, and Mark seemed to give himself a jerk. His inquisitiveness gained the upper hand.

"Heard you talkin' with Father Dolcelus, from over there," he explained, pointing somewhere to the left. "Then I snuck out." He frowned. "You don' look like no elves."

"We can change how we look."

Mark's eyes widened again. This time, however, in astonishment.

"Really?"

Eragon smiled and nodded.

"Observe."

He ran his fingers over his ears, infusing the magic to create the changes he wanted, and his ears returned to their usual state. Mark stared open-mouthed.

"That is so great!" he enthused. "Yes, now it's much more like elf! So the res' is like that, too?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued as he suddenly thought of something else. "But wait, what'd you change it for in the firs' place? And why're you here?"

Mark looked expectantly at him, all fear forgotten. Eragon smiled at him again, pleased. This was the transition he had been waiting for.

In a confidential tone, he whispered: "We have a mission."

"You wan' t' go t' Helgrind!" exclaimed Mark.

"Did you eavesdrop, Mark?"

The boy fidgeted uncomfortably under his stern gaze.

"Maybe." Defensively he added: "It wasn' s'if I knew it was supposed t' be private. You're standing in the middle of the church." Then he grinned. "Got Dolcelus quite angry, you did. Old codger thinks it's all his, an' you wanted to stroll inside, jus' like that. And then you knocked him out. Ha, that is priceless!"

"It is important for us, Mark." Carefully, Eragon extended his mind toward the boy. "If you listened, you know that we need a way inside. Do you know of one?"

The boy was silent a short moment, before he shook his head emphatically.

"No, I don' know nothin'."

Eragon didn't need his magic to know he was lying.

"Are you sure, Mark? It would be very important to us. You see, we have to find and rescue someone from inside."

The boy bit his lip, clearly conflicted.

"You would do two elves a great service."

That seemed to tip the balance.

"I'm not supposed to know. Father Dolcelus will have me whipped if he finds out," Mark gasped out. "But, you showed me tha' trick with you ears, 's was nice of you …"

"We won't tell him if you don't, Mark."

"Well, I have t' help cleaning the church … so I found it. All by myself!" he added proudly.

Eragon nodded encouragingly.

"The secret tunnel. Saw it when I was cleaning the wax from the candles one day." Mark spoke quickly, and looked around nervously, as if afraid someone might turn up at any second.

"And it leads to Helgrind?"

"Well, where else would it lead? The church is much older'an the rest of the city. It can' lead there."

Eragon tried to suppress his excitement. For all he knew, the secret passage could lead simply out of the town, ending on a field, or even be collapsed if it was that old, and be impassable. But there was a feeling in his gut that he was on the right track.

"Where does it begin? Can you show us?"

Mark nodded.

"I can. But we need t' be quick, we do, there's the ceremony this mornin'. I don' want to be there when it starts."

_Do you think his words true, Eragon?_

Eragon turned around to see Arya still looking sceptically at him and the boy. Her look strayed from them to the man on the floor that was still in his magic-induced sleep.

_It could be a trap, even._

_He's telling the truth as he knows it, Arya. I verified that._

She still looked unhappy, but nodded.

"Lead on, then, Mark."

The boy was fidgeting around and seemingly eager to get over with the entire thing.

"Quick, out of the open."

"_Risa._"

Mark led them through a row of wooden benches, towards the nearest wall, where a narrow portal was recessed in a dark oaken frame, almost invisible through the shadow of the wall. Eragon realised that this was the way both he and the monk had to have come so suddenly; unbeknown to them, they had been standing almost directly next to it.

Arya had floated the monk along and unceremoniously dumped him in the dark corner next to the open passageway, before they left the nave.

Once past the door, Mark seemed more at ease. He glanced at them quickly and through the small space, in which they now stood.

"We have t' cross the nave, 's on the other side. But you don' walk in there more 'an you have't. So the best way's –"

The deep chime of a bell vibrated in the air. Mark cringed.

"Oh no. The ceremony … You don' wan' t' be there. I need t' go to the monastery."

Eragon frowned, wanting to ask what he meant exactly, but he was already continuing.

"Listen t' me! The entry's on the other side of the church from here," he told them hastily. "Follow this corridor t' the staircase up, 's to the left, firs' doorway. Avoid the nave, cross is on the gallery – you can reach it from the staircase – back down on the other side, real simple, then the side aisle down to the vestibule directly before the transep'. The stairs to the crypt are there, in the tower. In the crypt, where the choir woul' be, above it o'course, there's the entry. Jus' have t' use the mechanism –"

Voices sounded down the dark hallway. Mark let out a terrified squeak.

"Have t' go. You too. I'm sorry."

And before either of them could react, he had slunk away into the dark of a corridor to their left.

"Mark!" Eragon hissed quietly, but there was no answer. He cursed softly, but it was no use. They had to find their way on their own.

– * –

Eragon looked around. They were standing in a dark, narrow corridor, which looked a little dusty, as though it was rarely used. Their footprints were clearly visible. The voices drifted away, but returned only moments later, now accompanied by sharp, bellowed words. Heavy boots thudded on the stone-tiled floor. The soldiers had arrived.

The sound came from the direction Mark had pointed toward.

Arya pressed her lips together. Her eyes focused into the far distance for a moment, then closed, before they abruptly snapped open again. He guessed she had tried to do what he dared not after the encounter with the monk, extending her consciousness to encompass their surroundings, touching upon the minds of the people near them to get an overview of the situation.

_They are looking for him. They know he is missing. We are running out of time._

Eragon turned and looked at the dark oaken door, already open, leading out and away, then back down the corridor and bit his lip. He knew he should urge Arya to leave, since she would not judge rationally, because of her promise. To turn around and leave, while they still could. It was the safer way, certainly. It was the logical way. It was, however, also the way of accepting defeat. Of giving up on rescuing Katrina … of failing Roran.

_They are coming this way. If we do not want to risk being spotted, we have to leave posthaste._

She sounded decisive.

Eragon exhaled slowly, making a decision.

_Alright. He gave us directions, Arya. Let's follow them, then._

_Was he completely certain? We have but this one chance. If he was mistaken …_

_Yes._

Arya's eyes flickered back and forth between door behind which the monk laid, and himself, finally resting on him. For a moment, there was silence. Then, she simply said: _**You**__ are certain._

With swift movements, she crossed the corridor, closed the door and started to layer spells over it, sealing it. The niche glowed blue quickly, then she was done.

_No one will enter this hallway that way._ _Lead on._

Eragon nodded shortly, and then, they walked down the corridor.

– * –

The spiral staircase leading up had narrow, high steps and was seemingly endless. Around and around it went, with no end or exit in sight. Eragon was plagued more and more with doubts. Had they missed an exit? They could not possibly be that high up and still be within the cathedral!

There was no sound other than their own footsteps in the narrow space. So far, they had evaded everyone successfully. He wondered whether the soldiers were even there anymore, but it was foolish to hope they might abandon their search, simply because they could not find them right away. They would not return until they had found them or searched the entire cathedral.

_I do not like this, Eragon._ Saphira's voice sounded suddenly in his head. _Not one bit._

Eragon knew she wasn't talking about the missing door or the missing soldiers.

She had been skulking around in a moody silence on the heath for as long as they had been gone, but he'd felt her feelings change when they'd met Mark. Something in their encounter had made her uneasy. She had brooded over it the entire time, but apparently, she had come to some sort of conclusion now.

_What is the matter Saphira?_ he asked concernedly.

There was a short pause. Then: _You are being manipulated. Out-manoeuvred._

He paused in his steps, bracing himself against the wall. Arya looked at him, frowning.

_Talk to Arya as well._

_I am._

Eragon nodded.

_So what makes you say that then, Saphira?_

_Use what Oromis taught us_, she snapped impatiently at him. _Think! What was our original plan to get Katrina?_

_Well, _Eragon said slowly. _You would fly us up to the entrance, where the Lethrblaka fly in and out –_

_Exactly. I would be there, to help you out, and fight the Lethrblaka, so that you could devote your entire attention to the Ra'zac and Katrina._

Arya had stilled, and now stood completely unmoving.

_Yes. I see. And I should have sooner. Stars above, I should have seen it._

_What, Arya?_

_The trap, Eragon!_

_What –_

But then, standing in a narrow, dark stairwell, the faint echoes of nailed boots far under them, it came to him. In a sudden revelation, he saw. It all slid into a picture, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. The happenings of the last days, the darkness, the wind, the fog, and the tunnel. It all made sense, a frightening kind of sense.

_Oh no._

_We always knew that there might be a trap, but did we ever stop to ponder that thought and what exactly it meant? It started with the winds, Eragon. They thwarted our original plan. So then you decided to climb up to the entrance, where at least I stood a little chance of reaching you, if ever it need be, knowing where it would be, from you –_

– _but we couldn't find it, because it was hidden, and dark and fogged all over, from the clouds that engulfed Helgrind, preventing us to see much of anything. So we decided to gather information here, and suddenly, there is a tunnel, easy to reach and so convenient a way inside._

_Convenient for us, Eragon_, Arya said. _Saphira will be far away, unknowing where exactly we are, unable to follow and aid us against the Lethrblaka and whatever else awaits us. Separating us was as much the goal as having us enter by way of _his _choosing; through cutting off all others._

Eragon stared at Arya, not really seeing her. Then he shook his head abruptly and spoke out loud.

"Alright. That was it then."

Arya drew up an eyebrow.

"What, exactly?"

"We leave, forthwith. It's over." His voice was rough. "We are not walking into Galbatorix's trap. It is him, is it not? It was him all along. His writing is all over this. He wants us in Helgrind, through this path, and we cannot let him force our hand. I know you promised, but I exonerate you. _I_ promised you I would not take anymore unnecessary risks. This –" he swallowed. "It has become one. Perhaps it always was."

He tried not to think of Katrina and Roran, but it was a futile task. _It's the right choice_, he told himself. _I have responsibility for more than just myself. Saphira, Arya … essentially, the Varden. It is the right choice._ But then, why did it feel like an icy fist grabbed his heart and squeezed it?

Arya looked at him hard. He couldn't discern what she would be thinking. He was being responsible. He kept his promise. _But I promised Roran too_, he thought. _I've become entangled in my promises_. And then he felt the irrational urge to laugh, because that was perhaps the only way to sum up his new life in one sentence. _Entangled in all my promises. It started with swearing to avenge Garrow, and look where it got me._

Arya shook her head, and turned away, on the brink of the step, on the brink of their mission.

_You promised your cousin._

_Yes._

_You should not have._

_I know. I know, Arya._

_Your life is more than just your own, Eragon. This is the lesson you have been learning all along. The war rests on your shoulders, it is your decision that can bring about victory or defeat. And yet …_

She sighed.

_Do you truly want to turn around and leave?_

Eragon bit his lip.

_It is the right thing to do._

_Maybe so. However, will you be able to live with it? We cannot have you constantly second-guessing yourself, when the war heats up further and you need to lead._

Eragon was silent, staring at the rough, curved wall. He knew the answer to that, as did Arya. Already, he couldn't help the thoughts that came creeping back into his mind. Now it was different. Now they knew what lay in store. They were alert and ready, the element of surprise gone. What could Galbatorix possibly have there to overwhelm them, if they reckoned with it? The Ra'zac lacked magic, and elves were immune to their breath –

He forcibly wrest himself free from that line of thought, recalling Oromis' lesson. _The fish and the osprey._ They still were the fish.

And this time, they would be the fish fighting the osprey _in the air_.

_No._ He wouldn't do it. _I'll manage, Arya. It will work out. We leave, and hope we can still fight our way out of the town._

_What about the third Egg?_ Saphira asked suddenly. _Did you not find a trace of it, Arya?_

Arya's head jerked around, her eyes drilling into him as though he were Saphira. Then she stared at the wall, silent for a long while, until in a completely uncharacteristic display of anger, her fist came down crashing on the wooden handrail, snapping it cleanly in two.

"Curse Galbatorix and his wrenched mind! Were that fool as insane as everyone claims him to be, the war would be won long since!"

Her voice echoed in the stairwell. Eragon stared at her, completely stunned at that outburst. She had her back to him, facing the wall, posture rigid and fists clenched, until her wrath abated as suddenly as it had come.

"So this it," she murmured. "The last bait, when everything is on the very brink, ready to fall to either side. When we are just about to turn around and leave, there is the one thing he knew we could never withstand the temptation of – the last dragon egg."

"He knew we would discover his trap betimes, you know," she continued. "He planned with it, all along, and threw the sole thing of his possession into the scales he knew would tip them for certain in his favour. It really is perfect."

She turned to look at him, her lovely features set in a grim line.

"And how right he is. This is no longer about the girl, dear to you and yours as she may be; and neither a question of my promise or pride. It suddenly is the matter of winning one of the most important battles in this war. If there is but a chance that we might recover the green egg, I have to risk it all."

A bitter, mirthless laughter fell from her lips.

"Well played, Galbatorix."

Eragon stared at her, dismayed. Galbatorix had always seemed so far away. He never went into battle himself, and Eragon concerned himself with Murtagh, and thousands of soldiers, wasting not many thoughts on someone who only ever spend his days in a lonely tower.

He realised now that this was a dangerous misconception. Suddenly, the King was close, so disturbingly close. His long arm reached across the entire Empire, and he could make things happen with but a thought, as though he was only playing a game. He simply did not _have_ to be anywhere else but in his citadel. His mind was sharp and constantly three steps ahead, and nothing that happened was happening by chance.

Oh, he'd always perceived him as a threat on a rational basis, knowing the war would end no sooner than he killed Galbatorix.

But for the first time, Eragon started to truly fear the king.

"Maybe we can find yet another way," he said, shaking off his thoughts. "There has to be one. You were right. The tunnel was a bad idea."

She shook her head.

"He would that we go there, Eragon," she said shortly. "You said it yourself. If I doubted the existence of this tunnel, I do no longer. And it will be the only way inside, he will have made sure of that. It is entering Helgrind by means of the tunnel, or not at all."

For a while, neither spoke.

"So we move on," Eragon said eventually. It wasn't a question.

"And so we do." Her eyes held a faraway look. "On and on, even though I cannot see the end; and so is mayhap that our wyrda. Pray, if you believe, Eragon, for you will need it."

He shook his head.

"Then may the stars watch over us, even if their light reaches us no longer."

* * *

**A/N: **And there is Galbatorix. I haven't forgotten about him, not at all :D He's currently sitting in his tower, watching his plan play out just like he wanted it to and cackling madly. And we don't even know the full extent of it yet. There's more to come, oh yes ... the story is finally picking up momentum. Action ahead.

See you next week :) And I thank you all for your reviews, I responded where I could – I love to read what you think.


	8. Choices, Part II

**A/N:** It's still Sunday (somewhere :P), and here's the second part – action ahead.

There's a scene coming up, when Eragon fights the last Lethrblaka, that might be a bit explicitly violent. I'm never good with rating stuff, but I think it's still covered by the T rating. At least from my understanding of it. The definition I looked up wasn't really all that helpful, sadly.

Thanks to **JWH**, who helped with again in tweaking the chapter.

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**CJ: **The scenes at the beginning of the chapters take place in the past. We're going through Arya's past, and that's why Fäolin is there – but in the present, he is dead, of course. So nothing to fear in that regard, and thanks for your reviews :)

* * *

**5. Choices: Blind**

The first opening was a mere gap in the wall, with no actual landing. Cautiously, but without hesitating, Eragon stuck his head through it. The way out was the way ahead. After their decision to continue, he now felt a certain sense of finality. His misgivings discarded, and his thoughts firmly fixated on their goal, it remained in his wake, like a landmark that passed by and then was gone; slowly dwindling away in his back, a point of no return from which there was only one direction to take.

The gap, he saw, lead to a small ledge; the gallery, as Mark has said. Certainly people could tread there, but it did not seem as though intended as an actual way, more a decorative element. It was just wide enough for one person to walk on it, and apart from piers in regular intervals, had no railing to prevent the careless' fall to the floor of the cathedral, deep below, where Eragon spotted monks as well as a few soldiers in the flickering torchlight. He craned his head to look up and saw that they were nearly underneath the ceiling.

High above the gathering priests, hidden in the roof's shadow, they balanced across the cathedral. In the aisle, in front of the main portal directly beneath them, someone shouted. They had discovered the monk. Then another voice barked orders to systematically search the hall. Distantly, through the open portal, sounded an ominous rumble. The storm, which had abided the night before, returned.

The priests moved into a semi-circle around the stone altar, on the far side of the hall, all in the same black habits and various states of mutilation. They remained there, standing motionless, as though waiting for some sort of signal. As Eragon and Arya nearly had completed their path, the soldiers closest to them spread out from the nave into the side aisles, out of sight. Only their heavy boots betrayed their presence.

They reached the other side without problems, but when Eragon bent down to enter a gap mirroring the one on the other side, he heard the boots echoing inside the stairwell. The soldiers were already there.

Cursing softly, he scooted back onto the ledge. One look to Arya behind him conveyed the problem. Simultaneously, both their looks came to rest on the continuation of the gallery, leading alongside the entire nave, up to the crossing holding the altar, where the transept intersected the main aisle, and Mark had said the stairs to the crypt were. Eragon looked at the little door, far away down the gallery, and shrugged.

_Might as well try and walk all the way up here._

Arya frowned, following his look, then inspecting the gallery again. As opposed to the one across the hall, it wasn't shrouded in shadows. The ceiling went up even higher here, and the wall was punctuated with the high paladin windows, which they would have to pass as well.

_We will be entirely open._

She was right, Eragon knew; the only kind of cover were the piers that continued to rise up to the roof, carrying it. The moment someone looked up, they had to see them. But it was the only way that came to his mind.

The sound of boots from the hole in the wall was now accompanied by voices.

Arya said nothing further, and stepped back out onto the ledge.

– * –

They slowly crept along the length of the gallery. A drawn out moan sounded from without; the wind, caught in the spines, in the turrets and merlons. Thunder rumbled again, this time joined by a flash of lightning; showing the heavy rain on the other side of the stained glass of the windows for a heartbeat. In between, he suddenly realised that the priests had started to chant. It was a low sound; rising, then ebbing away again, vast and heavy like the tide of the ocean, sounding alluring and at the same time sinister and alien.

While he moved along behind Arya, Eragon made attempts at understanding what was said, but he could not make out single words. Perhaps there even were not any. The meaning, however, carried across the distance clearly. Without using any language he knew or understood, it spoke of blood and madness, of destructive forces, of annihilation and death; and suddenly Eragon realised that the chant fitted. It seemed to cloak itself in the sounds of the thunderstorm, at the same time drawing on it and driving it. Was that even possible? Was this some kind of magic? He shivered and moved faster.

They reached one of the windows. Eragon watched Arya timing her movements, so as not to be exposed to the light whilst standing directly in front of window and revealing their presence by her silhouette. He screwed up his eyes as the lightning bathed the gallery in a harsh glare once again. Then she moved.

They almost made it.

Arya was already waiting on the other side, when a sudden, unpredictable flash of lightning streaked through the night outside at the most inconvenient of moments, showing Eragon's tall form against the lit window clearly.

And one soldier was looking up.

Eragon knew at once they were spotted. He cursed as the soldiers shouted and pointed. A blink of an eye later, an arrow was already whizzing by. He whirled his body around, slamming it hard against the pillar, seeing Arya doing the same from the corner of his eye. Not two inches to his left, at the opposing wall, an arrow quivered in a masonry joint. Hastily, he dug into the place deep within, where he could touch the flow of magic, and uttered the words: "_Skölir iet fra orya thorna!_"

The next arrow simply glanced off his back. The shouts increased, however, and then he heard what he'd feared. The dull sound of the boots was now behind them, the soldiers had discovered the small gap leading out onto the gallery.

_Run!_

Eragon jumped up at Arya's call.

The air was filled with arrows. _**Boom! **_The gigantic building shook in a thunderclap. Flashes bathed the hall in a glaring light, shining inside through the large paladin windows. Larger than life shadows moved in front of them, roaming around the church. Strange noises resounded all around; eerily sounding like human screams. Was it but the wind, whistling in the meares and spines?

Eragon ran.

The heavy boots of running soldiers behind them mixed with the sinister chanting and the storm howling in the masonry; filling the large, gloomy hall, echoing from the walls and sounding from everywhere. None of the priests reacted to the soldiers that were now hieing down the aisles, shouting orders. They had fallen into some kind of rapture, ecstatically following the chant.

It appeared strangely surreal to him, like two pictures out of two different dreams overlaid; the soldiers here and the priests there, behaving as if they didn't even notice one another. Together, however, it made for a nightmare.

A hail of arrows impacted on his shield, sucking up surprisingly much energy. He felt it like small twinges in his body. The steps were close behind them, too close. The chant rose, louder and louder.

_Whoooooii-_

That was the wind … or was it? There seemed to be almost something like a palpable presence here now.

The door was just another twenty steps away.

The air felt thick and heavy. Lightning and thunder … now simultaneously, continuously, relentlessly; the storm had gathered directly above the church, as though building up for the great crescendo, leading to a finale.

_Whoooooo-_

Another sudden gale whipped over the Dras-Leona, howling, rocking the cathedral.

And then, the wind organ started to play.

– * –

It was a gradually rising sound, void of any melody. Inharmonious, its notes wavered in the air, seemingly filling up the entire hall. It caused the very building to vibrate, went into his body and shook him from the inside. The world was a deafening cacophony of noises that made it impossible to speak. And above all, the chant flittered.

The priests were now dancing wildly and without any sort of coordination. A shaking of limbs, hands and heads thrown into the air, the habits discarded, displaying the horrifying mutilations for everyone to see. A deep note from the organ vibrated in Eragon's body. It was overwhelming, staggering, it sent him to his knees. The thunder roared, lightning flashed, one of the priests started to scream. He tried to ward his ears, but his magic felt sluggish and heavy.

Down below, a blade blinked into existence, cutting through air, then a hand, gushing a fountain of red. An oppressing, terrifying presence seemed to build in the cathedral – suddenly, a solitary beam of glaring sunlight speared the darkness from the circular window above the altar – the priests howled in ecstasy – pushing, shoving – he stared, enraptured – he could not move, had to watch –

A stinging slap on his left cheek shook him out of his stupor.

Arya was next to him.

"We cannot stay!" she yelled. He saw her lips move and heard her in his head. Her voice was drowned in the deafening finale of noises and sounds that could not possibly be that loud and not tear asunder his eardrums. The building shook to the very foundations …

"Eyddr eyreya onr, Eragon!"

He shook his head, confused. Suddenly, there was only silence. He felt it like a physical blow.

"What – what?"

_I warded your ears. We must leave, this instant!_

He jumped up, sprinting the last steps to end of the gallery.

And as if time suddenly stretched, like rubber, he saw it happen, right before they reached the small door: – the single beam of light, breaking through the darkness and falling onto the altar – the terribly warbling scream, as they cut off another limb – the swirling blood drops, not falling down, but creating a vortex, around the solitary beam of light – the chanting reaching a climax – and then the presence he had felt the entire time broke through, droplets re-arranging into a unspeakable, grotesque, face-like –

Arya slammed the door shut behind them, panting harshly. A few, quick words he did not hear, and the door glowed blue.

– * –

"By all the gods! What – what –"

Eragon sunk to his knees, shaking. He stared at Arya, whose lips moved, but no sound reached his ears. He undid her spell, and stared at the wall apathetically. The silence was almost eerie.

"I know not, Eragon. Nor do I wish to."

His look returned to her, and he realised she was shaken as well.

"Let us get away from here," she said. "Hopefully, this is the tower the boy spoke of, and we need not do anything but walk down these stairs."

Still feeling strangely weak, Eragon hoisted himself up, looking around. Indeed they stood in a tower chamber, with glassless windows on three sides and stairs in the middle. The fourth side held the door, on which Arya busied herself again. He slowly walked across the small, bare room, to the windowcase facing east, where Helgrind was.

It wasn't completely dark anymore.

Above the city, over whose wet, blinking roofs his eyes gazed, a cloud had broken and a solitary beam of light, almost blindingly bright against the deep black sky, fell directly onto the eastern front of the church. The city seemed to glow in the light, as did the cathedral. Wisps of cloud rotated around the hole at a dizzying pace. Further away, rain was still pouring down. Only here, as in the eye of a storm, there was utter silence.

"This door is now closed as much as I know how." She had joined him at the window. "But we ought to leave. Now."

"Right," he mumbled, almost unwilling to tear his gaze from the spectacular sight, and the first rays of real, bright sunlight in nearly a week.

"Eragon?"

He gave himself a jerk and regretfully turned his back on the window, joining Arya on the way down.

They ran down the stairs, their light steps barely making any sound, without encountering any soldiers. The base of the tower was a small, square-laid out chamber, with a wooden door on one side that Arya warded as well. Not one second later, it shook under the impact of someone trying to enter. She eyed her work, nodding in satisfaction when it would not budge.

"We are safe for the moment. Nevertheless, we do not have much time. Even if the soldiers will not manage to break through this door if they beat at it for a hundred years, there might be others who can. Is that the entrance to the crypt?"

The small room was cornered by four stony-grey buttresses. They carried the low, cross vaulted ceiling, and on the far side left room for a doorway, flanked by two wax candles whose light spilled onto the first step. The opening looked like a gaping mouth. Cold air drifted up, making the flames dance with the shadows.

"I would assume so."

The doorway was even lower than the ceiling; and Eragon and Arya had to duck to avoid bumping their heads, as they stepped down into the earth.

– * –

After only a few steps, the noise of the soldiers died away, and all that was left was the sound of their cautious steps echoing softly from the uneven walls, and their breathing in the cold, stale air; conveying the impression of being alone in the dark cathedral. It wasn't a very comforting feel.

Still, he preferred it to what he had just experienced.

The staircase opened up into a surprisingly wide hall that was only sparsely lit. Quickly, he muttered: "_Brisingr_", intent on shaping it into a ball of light and illuming the crypt. The werelight winked into existence and floated over his head, showing many grey sarcophagi, lined up against the walls of the cavern that stretched out to his left, underneath the cathedral. Above the first one, which looked ancient, a plate was set into the wall.

_Here lieth Illú, first of Those Who Have Seen The Light, wayfarer to Kuthiá, and founder of this Church._

Arya had stepped further into the underground hall, examining piers that carried the vault, and apparently counting steps. Eragon joined her with the pale blue ball of light, gazing at the spot she now stood on. It was roughly equidistant from the far, northern wall, and the southern wall where the stairs were. And it looked terribly similar to any other place.

"Here?"

His words sounded hollowly back to him.

Arya nodded.

Eragon's first reaction was bitter disappointment. It simply was a free space; the floor dirty, rough grey stone; with no visible difference that would somehow point toward a secret it might hold, elevating this spot above any other. Nothing was there. They had risked everything, and came up empty-handed. In the end, Mark had lied …

"It is a _secret_ passageway, Eragon. Did you think you could spot it by merely staring at it?"

He saw her eyes dancing in mirth, and felt his cheeks tinge red.

"Of course not."

He felt annoyed at her teasing, but soon couldn't suppress the smile that crept upon his face.

"Alright, perhaps a little. I was expecting something … well, grand. Not an utterly unremarkable floor that hasn't seen a broom since Vrael was alive."

He heard her laugh quietly next to him, tinkling through the silence.

"You shall find, Eragon, that many an important thing in life looks utterly unremarkable at first sight."

He shook his head ruefully.

"Well, where is that mechanism Mark spoke of, then?"

They started a quick search for anything that looked out of the ordinary, and it took Arya only a few minutes to spot one candleholder that looked not quite like the others. It was just a tiny bit askew, where the others were perfectly perpendicular. She extinguished the candle, and, gripping it tightly, tried to turn it.

It yielded.

Slowly, with quite some effort, she turned it until she had completed a quadrant and it would move no further. Suddenly, from the place where they had started their search, a couple of feet away, a stony scraping sounded. With hasty strides, Eragon walked over, watching breathlessly as a part of the floor simply receded – so seamlessly joined to the surrounding stone that it was impossible to spot. After about a man's length, it swung sideways, leaving behind a gaping maw of blackness. And yet he felt no fear, only exhilaration at what he thought for certain was finally, _finally_, their way to Katrina.

"I knew we would find it!"

"So you did."

Arya had joined him, staring into the darkness herself for a while, then at him.

"Well done, Eragon. I had doubts."

From below, a low rumble sounded up to them.

"Make haste, it is closing again already."

Eragon took a last look at her, her praise still glowing in him like an entire flask of Faelnirv.

And then the hole swallowed them.

– * –

In the pale sapphire light, the tunnel walls were gradually changing. Surrounded by dark grey, almost black basalt, the foundation of the cathedral, Eragon and Arya had begun their chthonic journey: leading down, below the building, in a narrow tunnel that had them walking stooped, as the height was not nearly enough to walk upright. The basalt had given way to fine sand, once they had been out from under the church and walking below the city, only interrupted for a short time by red bricks when they had passed the city walls underground. It was the sand that further outcropped openly, making up the Grey Heath.

Yet the tunnel went deeper still, and the sandy walls had turned into solid rock, forcing the previously straight passage to wind itself through it, following natural gaps in the stone with small twists and turns; and finally, it had expanded enough to walk normally.

It had been like that for the last half hour.

But now, black veins started to spread through the yellow limestone. They came from ahead, criss-crossing, but steadily increasing in thickness and number. Like a disease, they crept through the natural stone, running over the ceiling, the ground and the walls; repressing the limestone, poisoning it with their venom, turning it into their likeness.

Eragon tensed. He didn't need to inspect the walls more closely to know what this meant. His fingers slid over the rock, and he felt the coldness, inside him, as though something vital was missing. The sparkling blue ball of light, trailing along over their heads, seemed dimmer. The stone no longer glistened wetly, but swallowed the light straight away.

A glance to Arya, and he saw the same look on her face.

"We are here."

His words sounded hollowly from the walls, strangely distorted and stifled, as they continued onwards. Soon, no trace of the previous stone was left. There was a last valiant fleck of yellow, and then they were enclosed in the unnatural _black_.

– * –

The passage started to swerve wildly. Despite the earlier turns, it had always led into the same general direction; not so now, and soon he lost his sense of direction completely. Added to that, the stone seemed vesicular. Small blisters formed openings, which widened to tunnels, as thick as his finger or his arm, branching off their passage and vanishing in the dark. So far, none of them were big enough to even consider entering them, but it seemed only like a matter of time until they would be forced to choose.

Not five minutes later, they had stopped, facing a fork.

Eragon stared worriedly at the two tunnels. There was no way they would remember this particular fork over any other that might come, and he no longer trusted his sense of direction not to lead him astray. If they simply continued onwards, they risked running in endless circles.

Next to him, Arya pulled a small lump of porous stone from the pocket of her trousers and rubbed it on the wall at the entrance to the left-hand tunnel. It left a white mark that shone brightly in the light.

"There were a few inclusions of white chalk earlier," she explained softly. "I took with me as much as I could."

Eragon looked at the spot of friendly white on the wall, pleased.

"That was a great idea, Arya."

She curved her lips into a small smile. "I thought."

And so they moved on, marking their path with the soft chalkstone on the way, wherever that was necessary. Helgrind seemed permeated by tunnels and passages winding themselves through the mountain, up and down, smaller now, larger the next moment. It struck him that the tunnels were not unlike the earlier veins of black in the stone, running every which way without any visible order, deeper and deeper into the bowels of Helgrind; and further and further from the surface.

It was an unsettling thought.

After another bend, a speck of white gleamed ahead in the light. Without hesitating, Arya turned right, into the mouth of the tunnel that was not yet marked; but he was sure that she felt the same nagging worry that he did.

They had just walked in a big loop.

Would they ever find the Ra'zac and Katrina in an entire mountain that seemed veined with tunnels?

– * –

He had long since lost his feel for time. It seemed to stand still, here, inside the mountain. They had passed a few more of their own chalk marks, but Eragon dared not extending his mind to simply search the tunnels for signs of life, Katrina's or others', as he usually would have done; not after the experience when he first tried it days ago.

It left him and Arya stumbling around with no further knowledge of things to come than what their eyes could see, which was about ten feet. After that, the wan light was greedily swallowed by the ever-present darkness. And as much as the light prevented them from stumbling, it would do nothing to warn them of a possible attack in any kind of sensible advance. A Ra'zac could cross that distance with a skip, and the Lethrblaka would probably not even be illuminated in their entire expanse, or so Oromis' scrolls had suggested.

Their tunnel widened into a hall. The ceiling moved up rapidly and vanished into the dark. The walls retreated. It was impossible to tell how much space surrounded them, beyond the edge of the light – the next wall could have been a few steps away or a hundred, the roof of the underground cave directly over their heads or miles high.

Somehow, though, Eragon felt that this was a giant space. The atmosphere felt different – wide, large, not confined. Not knowing where the walls were was a disquieting thought, however. There was no corner they could back into, it left them wide open for an attack from any side. For anyone watching them walking through the cave from within the dark, they had to look light a beacon. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

_Drip…drop…drip…_

Somewhere ran water. The muffled sounds from their boots echoed in the cave. He heard Arya's breathing, and his own, suddenly seeming overly loud; felt his heart beating nervously in his chest. He started to feel distinctly uneasy. Cautiously he drew the sword from his sheath and moved ahead. Arya had had hers out for a while already. The ground to his right suddenly sloped up, a hill in the cave, the crest lost somewhere in the dark. Eragon frowned, looking at it. There was a certain smell here that hadn't been there before –

Something scraped over the rocky ground, _**click-click-click-**_

Eragon yanked his elfin blade up, whirling around as _it_ already slammed into him from above. It hit him with the force of a rampant dragon, burying him under it. He had no room to move. He struggled to breath, slowly running out of air. Pinchers or claws attacked his sides, as yet still hold at bay by his wards. Desperately, he tried to push it off of him, but he was trapped. He could not speak. He tried using magic with purely thinking the words in the Ancient Language for _banish_. Nothing happened. The world shrunk into a narrow tunnel, the dark was closing in.

Suddenly, it let out a shrill shriek and kicked out. Eragon felt himself ripped out from under it in the same instant and thrown against the foot of the sloping hill, where whatever it was had descended from.

Arya was standing in front of him, now fighting two of the creatures at once. In the light of his magic, Eragon saw two gigantic forms, with huge, bulging black eyes, a beak seven feet long and bat-like wings. Feet spiked with sharp claws scratched over the rock, carrying a reptile-like body. They looked like a mockery of a dragon, twisted and hideous where a dragon was beautiful and elegant, but much more dangerous.

They had to be Lethrblaka.

Arya was in no position to attack, being unable to reach even their heads behind the beaks that hacked at her with enough force to spear her, should they ever get past her defences. Her blade moved in a blur, spinning a web of steel in front of her, holding off the beaks, yet unable to stop the claws that tried piercing her wards. She had to do her utmost to not get pushed back.

On the bright side, one of the creatures had gash at its side that leaked a green fluid.

In his state, it took him an excruciatingly long second to realise that she was defending _him_. She had also inflicted the wound upon the beast and pulled him out from under it afterwards.

He rose at once, still feeling light-headed, but finding himself unharmed otherwise. His wards and Arya had saved his life. Realising that it was indeed impossible to fight the Lethrblaka frontally, he quickly darted out to the side, attacking the flank of the already wounded beast.

His sword slid through its grey hide up to the hilt. The Lethrblaka shrieked again, in its high-pitched, inhuman sounding voice that rang in his ears, but it appeared to be handicapped in no particular way. Eragon wished bitterly that Saphira were here – the Lethrblaka were taller than him and Arya and about five times that long; much rather Saphira's order of magnitude.

The wounded beast suddenly abandoned Arya, and like a bludgeon, the beak came racing at him from the side. He jumped back, feeling the air rush past him, so close.

He was now facing the same quandary Arya did, a couple feet away from him. The giant beak hacked at him, assisted by the wickedly sharp claws. He ducked and sidestepped, fending of the claws with his sword. Instead of attacking it further, he concentrated on defending for a time, but with the minuscule amount of concentration he could spare from his own moves to avoid the beak, he began to string a spell together, including all of the twelve words of death he had learned.

It took surprisingly much effort. He released the spell.

It had no effect whatsoever. He cursed angrily, realising that somehow, the Lethrblaka were immune to magic.

"Magic does not work against those blasted beasts!" he shouted over to Arya and viciously thrust at the approaching beak. The sword quivered in his hands at the impact. The beast seemed to feel nothing at all.

She didn't answer, but broke away to the right and, in a daring move, ducked below the beak of her Lethrblaka, dashing towards his. Eragon held his breath as the claw shot towards her unprotected back and grazed her neck, drawing blood. Her wards had either dropped already or she had had none in the fist place.

The Lethrblaka seemed to have realised that the sword could do nothing to its beak. It immediately took advantage of that fact, simply moving forwards with the beak as a shield. The claws slashed at him, impacting on his wards again and again. He felt the strain it put upon his magic, and could do nothing but retreat if he didn't want to feel that beak in his abdomen sometime soon on one hand, yet not alert it of Arya either, by circling it and so prompting it to turn.

Arya plunged her sword into the lower belly of the distracted Lethrblaka that was greedily attacking Eragon, smelling a near victory. More of the strange blue-green blood spurted out. The Lethrblaka trashed wildly. Its tail flung back and crashed into her back, hard. Like a whip wielded by giant, it went straight through Arya's thin shirt and tore chunks of flesh out of her back.

Arya screamed. She was flung to the side by the force, losing her sword. It clattered on the ground, too far away from her to reach it. She rose unsteadily, defenceless, coming face to face with the second, unwounded Lethrblaka that had turned ponderously. At the last moment, she rolled to the side. The beak hit rock where moment before her chest had been.

"Distract it, Eragon!" she cried. "Somehow!"

Eragon's brain seemed to have frozen. He could think of nothing else but trying to attack it. He threw himself to the ground, rolling sideways under the beak of his Lethrblaka. Arya was desperately scrambling away from the second beast, up the slope, but at the same time, the distance between her and her sword became greater and greater.

The Lethrblaka was deliberately placing itself between her and her weapon. Its insectoid facet eyes glittered in the light with a malicious intelligence.

Eragon started attacking its flank wildly. Luckily, his wild attacks seemed to have been enough, and the beast shrieked and stayed from Arya. She sprinted off to her sword, past Eragon, picking it up on the run and leaped.

Eragon, however, now found himself in the very uncomfortable situation of being wedged between two beaks, one in front of him, and one at his back. The second, wounded Lethrblaka was moving slower, but nevertheless only ready enough to bite his head off. It simply wouldn't die.

Will a dull _thud_, Arya landed on the back of the already injured Lethrblaka behind him. Eragon looked over his shoulder and realised at once that while its tail could not reach her there, the other Lethrblaka could. He ran down the side of it, feeling another attack impact on his ward. Now away from Arya, he engaged it in a fight once more to keep its attention on him, using his speed to his advantage to stay at its flank and away from the beak, causing them to slowly circle around each other.

Over his shoulder, he saw Arya on the back of the other Lethrblaka starting to strike it with her sword. Just below its monstrous head, she hacked at it again and again. The beast bucked mightily, trying to throw her off, but she balanced on the shaking back easily. It looked like she was dancing.

Arya was coated in the greenish substance. It mingled with the red that oozed from her own back. The Lethrblaka let out an ear-splitting screech, and then uttered a series of strange clicking-sounds.

Eragon finally managed to wound the second Lethrblaka as well, rending open a long gash above its legs. For a second, his eyes went up.

His heart seemed to skip a beat.

Falling down noiselessly, directly above Arya, was one of the Ra'zac. It carried a strange, leaf-bladed sword, which was pointed down, directly at her neck. Her unprotected neck. Arya, still trying to sever the head of the Lethrblaka, hadn't noticed and wouldn't, he saw it clearly. She was mere seconds away from getting the ugly sword plunged deeply into her pale, delicate neck … sinking to her knees … dead …

Time seemed to stretch in the most peculiar way; all the while his world narrowed all around him to a pinpoint, only encompassing the glittering sword, its glittering tip, like a shard of a broken crystal.

He felt himself propelled forwards, flying through the air – between her and the blade, but it seemed to late – he could never hope to raise his own sword in time –

The blow hit him with terrible force. The magic rushed out of him, protecting him, yet robbing much, too much of his strength. He felt it like a hammer to his chest, squeezing the breath out of him painfully, and his ward dropped. Flung against Arya, both tumbled off the Lethrblaka, missing the second blow of the Ra'zac, which screeched in anger.

Dizzied, he tried to rise from the ground.

Arya groaned painfully, having landed on her wounded back.

"What –"

The Ra'zac thudded on the ground next to them.

"Diesssss! Meddling foolsssss!"

Still on the ground, Eragon weakly parried its next attack.

The Lethrblaka, blind in pain from the wound Arya had inflicted in its neck, charged and trashed around, tossing Arya away through the air like a mere doll, against a rock thirty feet away from their fight. Again, she cried out in pain at the impact against her injured back. With difficulty, she tried to pull herself up, using the rock as a crutch.

She was successful, but her sword was far away, useless on the ground where she first had landed. The Lethrblaka charged again, with every intention to squash her against the rock. Eragon watched in helpless despair, realising that Arya was unable to move away. She just barely held herself up against the rock.

And then, it was as though a dark, shadowy veil descended over her face. An ugly grimace settled on her beautiful features. She started to chant under her breath, using words he could not make out. A crackling emerald bolt of energy built in her palm and sprang forth.

As if paralysed, he watched it smote the Lethrblaka at its back, directly into the gaping wound, even throwing the monstrous beast back.

The dark green, portentous light flickered on the surface of the rocks, bathing the surroundings in its glaring shine for what seemed like an eternity and was less than a second. Arya swayed on her feet dangerously, panting, with a myriad of emotions on her hitherto unmoving face, and none of them pleasant. Her lips curved into a cold, almost cruel smile, disturbing him.

This was the same spell Murtagh had used. The spell that had killed Hrothgar. _Dark Magic._

And the Lethrblaka shrieked in agony.

– * –

It was over as quickly as it had started.

The so alien expression that had marred her features was gone as though it never was. Her hand slipped from the rock, and she sunk to her knees, gasping for air and staring blankly at the twitching beast.

He wanted to say something, ask her, perhaps, demand to know what she had been thinking, shocked that she would even attempt to use it, more so that she did to this effect, yet grateful at the same time that she was still alive and the Lethrblaka dying, and not the other way round; but the pitiful wails became so loud that Eragon thought he'd felt the ground vibrate, rendering any attempt at communication impossible. It was unbearable, a shrill, bloodcurdling noise, until finally the chitinous body of the Lethrblaka twitched for the last time, until the head thudded to the ground, no longer held up, accomplishing that which she had failed to achieve with her sword alone.

Eragon hadn't noticed the second Ra'zac arrive, but it was there, now; both cloaked forms shaking off the stupefying surprise that had rooted them to the spot, just like him; shrieking in fury at the death of their parent and starting to rush towards her with inhuman swiftness. He moved to intercept them, and the last thing he saw before he had to focus on the furious hump-backed beasts was her burying her head in her hands, shoulders shaking silently.

– * –

The remaining Lethrblaka was trying to reach him, but the Ra'zac, lacking the overview to see that their parent was the greater threat or even the advantages in attacking together, were blocking the way with their bodies – fortunately for Eragon, as he was at a severe disadvantage already against the two wickedly curved blades alone.

His thin elfin sword swished through the air, blocking the attacks of their combined onslaught trustily, whenever the blades met; but it was the wrong weapon for this sort of fight. At the moment, he would have preferred something with more surface, like a staff, perhaps even a simple club – either would have been better for a pure defence against two foes at once. A little wistfully, he thought of Zar'roc – it was the ideal combination of size and weight.

The Ra'zac pressed forward, but anything other than holding his ground was no option, for he was the only thing between them and a completely exhausted Arya. Finally, she pulled herself up again, shakily, and in no shape to help him, he saw, from the corner of his eyes.

"Use indirect attacks," she gasped out. "It is impervious … only to magic that affects it directly … not spells that deal out – physical harm due to their nature."

Did she expect him to delve into the dark magics as well, he wondered, and whether she truly would use any means as long as it met the desired ends and not feel anything. But no, she had been affected, clearly, and done it despite herself. – And then he had to banish those thoughts racing through his mind, having his hands full with the Ra'zac and even that small moment of inattention cost him as dearly, for the smaller Ra'zac struck him with the flat side of its sword and cleanly snapped the bone of his left leg. With a pained grunt, his felt his leg give out from under him; no longer able to stand and a position to defend himself or Arya.

Desperately, he fought on his knees, but he knew he was slipping. In a moment's time, they would overrun him. In his state of despair, he cried the first words that came to his mind.

"Iet skölir!"

_Shield me._

The gedwëy ignasia on his right palm blazed brightly in silver light. Suddenly, a wall of fire sprang up in front of him, burning bright and deep sapphire blue. He gazed in amazement at the way his magic had interpreted his command. The flickering wall shielded him, and the Ra'zac instinctively shrunk from the light and the heat.

Gratefully, he concentrated and willed the flames to move ahead. High up into the dark of the cave they leapt, three times his height and higher, and expanding in width as well. Vision through the flickering wall was poor, so he registered surprise when it became clear that the remaining Lethrblaka could not retreat as fast as he advanced the burning wall: its head became trapped within the dancing flames, as they caught up with it. Panic-stricken, it moved his head up and down, but everywhere was fire.

Seizing his chance, Eragon placed his left hand on the twelve diamonds concealed inside the belt of Beloth the Wise that was strapped around his waist, drawing upon the power he had stored within the gems; and thrust his right palm forward.

The head of the Lethrblaka exploded in a fireball. It shrieked and started to bash its head against the rocky ground, desperately trying to extinguish the flames; then tried again to flee them, yet already it was no longer Eragon's fire. Its own grey hide was burning.

Oily smoke rose up as he spurred the burning, had it greedily burn away skin, flesh and bones with unnatural heat. The beak opened in a despairing cry, and flames shot out of it, it was burning from the inside. The large facet eyes cracked, looking like a broken mirror; with a blazing light behind them, eyes of yellow-blue fire, staring at him, and he stared back, horrified, yet unable to look away.

The sickly-sweet stench of burned flesh mixed with the rancid one of the Lethrblaka, whose inner fluids spilled onto the rock, making him gag. His concentration slipped, and the fire died down; however, the Lethrblaka laid still and unmoving.

It was dead, the head nothing more than a skull, staring at him with empty eye sockets. He warily looked around for the Ra'zac, but upon seeing their second parent dead, they uttered a last hiss and retreated into the dark.

– * –

The cave laid draped in the heavy silence that succeeds and is peculiar to all battles, regardless of whether they are fought on the battlefield or in dark mountains; the point in time when the world rests and mourns the cost of a victory. Thus it was that Eragon sighed and turned around. Unable to use his broken leg, he started to crawl over to Arya. The werelight's shine painted her face in pale tones, even more so than usual. She cowered there, the knees pulled to her chest with her arms wrapped around them, shivering and staring ahead into nothingness.

He made to speak, and almost missed the faint _twang_ of a released bowstring. He threw himself to the ground, cursing as arrows whizzed overhead, then dragged her unwilling form back between the two massive bodies of the Lethrblaka to offer them a small amount of protection against the deadly projectiles.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Arya nodded.

She didn't meet his eyes.

He wanted to confront her, still upset over seeing her use the same spell that killed Hrothgar, and yet, he hesitated. Perhaps it was seeing her affected like this, but the words didn't pass his lips. In truth, he knew next to nothing about Dark Magic. It hadn't been described in any of the scrolls he had read. He couldn't fathom what she was experiencing, and shied away from directly asking her.

The cuts in his waist burned and his broken leg throbbed painfully.

"Your back … let me see to it, then."

She turned wordlessly, offering him her back. Her shirt was dyed red. The blood had begun to dry, and made the cloth stiff and glued to her flesh. He peeled the garment away, ripping the wounds open again.

She showed no reaction.

Eragon inhaled sharply. Her back was in bad state. Entire strips of flesh had been torn out where the tail had hit her, leaving the bare bones of her spine to shimmer ghostly white. It was a miracle it wasn't broken. Even if she hadn't foregone wearing her leather armour, to avoid attracting attention in the city, against this horrid blow it would not have protected her either.

Again, he placed his left palm over the belt and drew up on the energy he had stored within the gems over the course of their travel to Helgrind. His right hand began to move over her mutilated back, reminding him of their first journey to Farthen Dûr. His fingers softly travelled up her spine, mending three cracked rips he made out, restoring flesh and muscles and leaving only perfect, unblemished skin where wounds had been.

Diligently, he spelled her clothes clean of any blood, and pulled her shirt back down.

"Anything else?"

She only shook her head. Apart from the short advice, she hadn't said a single word since the attack of the Lethrblaka. Now she turned back around. For the first time, he was able to get a clear look at her eyes. The green looked matt and haunted. And suddenly, magic, able to mend and heal even the most grievous bodily wounds, felt wholly inadequate.

"Eragon …"

Her voice was dull.

"Yes?"

"I –" she appeared on the brink of saying something that seemed hard, yet important to her, but faltered. She licked her dry lips.

"Is there still some Faelnirv left?"

He stared at her, then nodded, pulling the flask from his belt. He shook it. Nothing more than one swig was left.

He handed it to her.

"Take it all. I can use the energy from the belt if I have to."

She drank it down, visibly relaxing.

"Do you require help with your leg?" she asked, sounding almost as usual.

"If you could straighten it, it would be appreciated."

She nodded.

There was an ugly grinding sound, and he suppressed a scream as the broken bones grated against each other. Taking a deep breath, he set out to mend the bones, as Oromis had had him read in his scrolls.

He moved on to the cuts at his waist, then rose; placing a weak ward around them both, to be at least a little forearmed against arrows hissing out of the dark.

When they were already moving away from the place of the fight and resumed their journey, he felt her thoughts brush against his.

_Once again, you saved my life. It shall not be forgotten._

He shrugged.

_As did you mine. And neither will I forget._

– * –

The glowing light showed a bizarre forest of stalagmites that suddenly rose from the ground, sometimes joining their hanging counterparts, forming massive pillars. The path wound around them, deeper and deeper into the heart of the cave. Eragon was reminded of the forest of stone he had encountered on top of Helgrind, and felt a sudden nervous tension settle in his stomach. It might have been an elevating sight, a subterranean cathedral hall, pervaded by solemn silence, but in his mind, the gloomy memories transformed the solemnity into sinisterness, and the silence into a burden weighing everything down.

Additionally, they had yet to encounter the Ra'zac again. Eragon felt certain that this was the way they had fled. They could be lurking behind every stone, waiting and watching. Tensely, he took the first step into the thousands and thousands of stony piers.

His light winked out of existence.

They stood in perfect darkness. Eragon could not see the hand in front his face. Desperately, he tried to call upon his magic to bring back the werelight, but to no avail. It was as though his magic was running through his fingers, he was unable to hold onto it and shape it into a spell using the Ancient Language.

He took another step and felt his wards fail as well.

Eragon felt panic begin to grip him. He could not see his next step, it was simply pitch-black wherever he looked, and then came the irrational fear of being blinded, because he _could not see_ anymore, and from within the dark sounded noises, horrible hissing laughter –

"No magickssss to help you here, Rider. No one to ssssave you and the elvessss, no one to hear you ssssscream and diessssss …"

He tried frantically to create a new ward, but he could not perform even the simplest of spells. From ahead, it felt as though an icy wind was blowing in his face, and finally, _finally_, his mind drew the conclusion of every oddity that had happened to them around Helgrind during the last days. The inability to shatter the rock, back in the forest of stone. The problems to reach Arya with his mind. The cold, empty feeling inside him …

Somehow, someway, Helgrind was draining him of his magic. Using it had become progressively harder, he realised as his mind retraced their steps, and here, in its very centre, the _black_ rock was finally able to nullify it altogether. It all made sense, why the Ra'zac, whose only real weakness was magic and light would dwell here, why Galbatorix had wanted them to travel through Helgrind bowels to reach Katrina.

He saw it, but now it was too late.

He was completely defenceless.

_SsssssSssss …_

The voice seemed to come from ahead, from the side, from all around. They came from the blackness, and they were the blackness. It swirled in front of his eyes, impermeable and thick, until he thought he saw shadows moving in the corner of his eyes, but whenever he turned his head, there was nothing. Forcing down his rising panic, he tried to reach out to Arya with his thoughts, but found that he could not. Was she even there anymore? Or was he totally alone, now?

_Saphira?_

There was no answer.

"Arya!"

Something brushed over his shoulder.

He jumped, and blindly extended his arm, grasping in the darkness. He felt something warm, clutching it.

It was Arya's shoulder.

For a moment he was sure she was shaking like a leaf. Then she stiffened under his touch.

"Eragon. Take my hand, so we do not get separated."

Her hand moved atop his, cool and smooth.

"My magic has failed me. I should presume yours is in much the same state."

Her voice was detached, cold. Emotionless.

"Aye," he answered and wondered what she might have been feeling, or did not wish to feel. Perhaps that was closer to the truth. "We cannot communicate through our minds either. Not even to Saphira."

"You have to use – down!"

Her hand yanked at his, and he tumbled to his knees.

_Sssssssst._

He felt the feathered end of the arrow brush over his hair.

"How –"

"Use your ears, Eragon. They are the best tool you have now. _Listen_."

He focused intently, like he had done when he first had meditated back at the clearing with the ants. Suddenly, an entire cosmos bloomed.

Next to him, Arya breathed softly, regularly. Far to his right, water trickled over a wavy surface. Ahead, a pebble bounced over the ground. Something scraped on the rocky surface.

_Click-click-click…_

Every sound seemed overly loud in the darkness.

There was a faint hissing of air and he turned sideways instinctively. Another arrow passed between them, hitting a rock behind them. It was close enough to his face for him to smell a cloying scent he recognised at once. The arrows were coated in Seithr oil. For a short moment he rued leaving his own bow behind, with Saphira, but then shook his head. It would be useless now, and it would have been too conspicuous in the city.

Louder hissing sounded through the dark, sibilant, annoyed, the source no arrow.

"_Foolissssh elvesss, trying to sssstop their fate. You cannot esssscape. You cannot even sssssee. Your magicssss can do us no harm, here. Foolissssh rider, coming here. Thissss place isss not like your world. Older. Better, yessss. We knowsssss."_

More laughter, metallic, insectoid.

They clicked to each other through the cave.

And then, the Ra'zac descended upon them.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, I hope I did the Lethrblaka justice – I thought the fight was a little too easy for Eragon in Brisingr, myself. And we discovered one of the secrets of Helgrind. If you read carefully, this might not have been that much of a surprise, I hinted at it back in Chapter 3. But it does make for a rather nice cliffhanger, doesn't it? The big finale is coming closer …

Thanks for the reviews, all! The third part next week, leave me your thoughts regarding this one?


	9. Choices, Part III

Thanks to JWH for patiently discussing obscure words, and offering his thoughts.

**A/N:**

Man. Has it really been two years? I almost can't believe it. Two years, and I'm finally at the scene that started everything for me. This chapter will contain the first climax, it's what I based my story on – the idea I had first in mind, even longer than the two years by now.

I guess you could say that this is the heart of the story. What does it mean to truly love? And what does it mean to be guilty, to fail and fall, just like we all do, at times; yet to prove yourself a hero in the truest sense of the words, in rising again and moving on, stronger than before.

All that is part of the journey that starts for Eragon now, at the fateful black Rock of Helgrind, and that will end with discovering who he is, and what he has to do, in order to defeat the Dark King.

It was a pain at times, but I'm proud of how it came out in the end. I hope you all will enjoy it as much as I did. The real story is about to kick off. Let's go.

* * *

**5. Choices: Fallen**

.

_Oh my love, if it's_

_All I can do_

_I'll take the fall_

_For you_

.~.

A step to the left, a step to the right. Eragon did not think, as he fought the void in front of him. In the absence of his sight, he relied on his other senses, which seemed sharpened. He anticipated many attacks, heard capes and hoods rustle, telling him of his opponent's movements; listened to the swishing air when the sword moved, to the breathing, in and out.

He felt the stinging and the stickiness from the many wounds where he hadn't been fast enough and the blade of the Ra'zac had bit into his flesh, burning, where it went deeper; and ignored it, in the heat of the battle that pulsed through his body and pushed away everything else.

He felt every little groove in the pommel of his sword, the uneven ground under his feet, Arya against his back; knowing that she would defend it, and knowing that she counted on him the same way. It was a glorious feeling, he found; proving true the words he'd spoken, back when first they had set out: that there was no one he would rather have at his side in a fight.

And here, they were equals.

They were fighting back-to-back, hands still linked; his right in her left. It restricted their freedom of movement, but it was the only way to avoid becoming separated, losing each other and leaving their backs unprotected against a foe that could see in a darkness where they could not. It was a sure way to die.

The flapping of the unseen Ra'zac's cloak heralded another lunge at him.

Eragon deflected the attack at the last moment, estimating the path the sword of his foe would take, knocking it aside. At the same time, he extended right leg, feeling one of the Ra'zac's, and hooked his foot around it. The following pull was enough to make it stumble. Eragon's sword was already on its way down. The Ra'zac hissed and Eragon felt the air brush over his skin as its body moved – the thrust grazed it, glancing off on the chitinous exoskeleton. It probably had thrown itself to the side. Eragon cursed as he heard the figure scramble away into dark of the cavern, vanishing out of his reach and out of his senses, not three feet away.

Blindly, he turned his head. Suddenly, the air swished to his right and he spun around at once, the sword high. Just in time, he blocked the blade of the Ra'zac coming down on his and Arya's unprotected arms. Nasuada's gift rang clearly as steel met steel once more.

Sweat ran down from his forehead and dripped into his eyes, as he strained to push the opposing blade aside. His breath came short and quick. Bit by bit, his sword gave way under the pressure of the Ra'zac. His arm throbbed.

Suddenly, with the swords still in the deadlock, two things happened at the same instant.

Eragon sensed the head of the Ra'zac head jerking forwards, smelling its foul breath as its beak opened, aimed at his face.

And it lost its balance as it was knocked into.

Something sharp and pointy dug itself into his shoulder violently. The beak had missed his face; pain exploded down Eragon's arm, and with a metallic shriek, his blade raced alongside that of the vile insect-like being, generating a shower of sparks that blinked in the dark, shining light on everyone for the shortest of moments.

The second, taller Ra'zac had staggered into its companion, which Eragon was fighting, clicking rapidly.

Eragon's sword slid effortlessly into the thigh of his adversary.

It crashed to the ground. Perhaps its leg was severed. His left shoulder burned and sent an agonising spike of pain through his body each time he moved his arm, but he hacked into the darkness, piercing the wounded Ra'zac several times, until he could not reach it anymore as it retreated, apparently severely injured. He felt Arya's movements through their linked hands; she was now next to him rather than at his back, still battering away at the tall Ra'zac.

In the fraction of a second, Eragon realised he had to exploit the chance she had opened up for him by sending her Ra'zac stumbling into his, distracting it, if they wanted to end this fight anytime soon.

Gritting his teeth and ignoring the throbbing pain in his upper arm, he let go of her hand and leapt into the black.

– * –

In front of him was a stalagmite with a razor-sharp tip.

With his heart beating rapidly, he carefully felt his way around, between the columns and uprising stones he could not see. Worse, though, were the ones that extended down from the ceiling, ending at head height, just long enough to inflict horrible injuries with their sharp ends.

From ahead, a scraping noise reached his ears. He crept onwards. Around another bulky rock he moved, and he smelled the typical odour he'd come to associate with the Ra'zac; that of slowly rotting meat.

Hereto, the Ra'zac had crawled. And at this place, it would meet its end.

The stink of its bleeding body drifted over from directly in front of him. It tried to raise its sword, he heard, but Eragon knocked it away, his own sword now in his good, right hand, leaving the Ra'zac defenceless on the ground. He stared into the blind darkness, wondering what Brom would say, and whether he would be a little proud, could he see him now, at the end of the quest they had begun together.

It seemed like so long ago …

His path had led him away from home, throughout the entirety of Alagaësia, to dwarves and elves and back again. He had accomplished many a task, all but the one on whose pursuit he originally had left; and yet it had been on his mind the entire time. It had never been a question that eventually, he would set out to finish what to do he had left Carvahall for; and so he was here.

Most likely Brom would tell him to stop thinking and get on with it. A tiny smile flitted over his face, barely there, before he became serious again.

"This is for you … and for Garrow."

His whispered words hung in the air. Grimly, he brought down the blade. The Ra'zac screeched high and shrill.

The sword pierced through the chitin-armoured chest. A liquid bubbled out of the hole, audible by a squishing sound as he plunged in the sword again. The Ra'zac trashed on the ground, but the movement became weaker and weaker.

He stabbed it a few more times, until finally, it moved no longer. Breathing hard, he stopped.

Now, he had his revenge. He felt like a part of his journey was finished; and yet there was no pride, only a grim satisfaction. The Ra'zac would continue to lie here, in the eternal night of Helgrind's belly, never again able to do anyone harm and bring misery upon peaceful towns, like it had done to him and Carvahall. And that was a good thought.

He turned and walked away. He would not return. He would never find it again, here, in this cave. Be it its grave.

– * –

From ahead and slightly to the right still came the sound of heavy fighting. He felt his way back through the invisible maze of rock outcroppings, limping and wincing with each step as he suddenly started to feel his battered body again, and the coldness that was creeping through him. He was sweating from the exertion, and yet shivering in the cold that was not without him, but within. He was almost glad that the wounds provided distraction. It gave him something different to focus on, even if it was pain.

He groped for his wounds, hissing when he touched one. The most serious of them, beside his bad shoulder, seemed to be a stab wound at his side that was still oozing blood. Eragon gritted his teeth and walked onwards, arriving just in time to see swords meet in a shower of sparks. Like dimly glowing stars, kindling in the air and dying a heartbeat later, they flittered through the night.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The idea seemed so simple, he could not believe he hadn't thought of it before. He felt for the tinderbox that was still in his pocket and which he had not so much as glanced at since he'd traveled with Brom.

Had he become so lazy and used to magic that he forgot the obvious?

Kneeling down quickly, he searched for the one arrow that had hit the rock after passing him; from the Ra'zac's first attack. It had to be here, somewhere. It was a fool's hope, trying to find anything in the dark, but for once, he was lucky. After only a few minutes, his fingers felt its shaft. Careful not to touch the arrowhead with the Seithr oil, he tried to pick it up.

Pain flared up in his arm as it stretched, and he uttered a strangled cry. His left arm was useless, and he could not fix it. With his right hand, he lifted it off the ground. Clumsily, he tried striking the tinderbox with the flint one-handed, while not losing the arrow again. After the third try, sparks emanated from the metal, just like they had from the sword earlier. A few fell into the tinder touching the arrowhead.

He held his breath.

The sticky oil burned with a pale blue flame.

Eragon grinned. He tore a small strip of cloth from his sleeve with his teeth and wrapped it around the arrowhead. The flame latched onto it, and he had a makeshift torch.

The flame was pitifully small, but it provided enough light for him to see Arya's outline grey in the dark, even though she was a good six feet away. And if he could see her, she could see the Ra'zac.

Arya's movements changed at once. She became much faster, no longer defending against attacks at the very last moment. He saw her parrying an attack and quickly engaging into one of her own, which Eragon recognised to be a feint right after she had begun to move. He had seen her use it a few times: her right foot was angled a tiny degree more inward than during her usual lunge, to prepare for the spin back and allow her to execute it faster.

The Ra'zac, however, fell for it and moved at once to take advantage of the perceived opening. It stabbed at her abdomen, at the exact moment when she began to move and turn away, until she stood almost at a right angle to the Ra'zac. Its blade passed her on the front by inches, piercing the empty air, and her own elfin sword, high, raced outwards, directly towards its throat.

The Ra'zac was beheaded before it could recognise the error it had made.

Arya wiped her sword on a rag, before placing it back into the sheath, never saying a word; but he saw her tight smile and the short nod, and took the silent praise for what it was. And then, they moved on, bruised and battered, yet victorious, through the rising stalagmites and hanging stalactites; their dim torch a bright beacon of light in a place of utter darkness.

– * –

The flickering light revealed an underworld of bizarre forms. Walls that looked like a cascading waterfall, descending out of the dark and subsequently frozen in time and turned to stone. Pillars and blocks that looked like animals born out of dreams, all in stone – all that passed by the two wandering travelling companions, who looked worse for wear, but dragged themselves onward.

Eventually, the last stalactites receded, leaving an open space that was not unlike the one on the other side where they had entered this strange landscape; the black ground uneven, the ceiling far above, lost in the dark, the gigantic cave unable to be lit by the makeshift torch by far.

And even that little light fled the darkness, when the flame sputtered and died.

– * –

The air was cold and stale; a little damp. Every now and then gravel crunched underneath their boots, but the ground mostly was bare rock, and sharp ridges threatened to punish any inattentiveness with a stumble; especially as it sloped downhill.

A rock clattered through the silence, somewhere, far away. It took many seconds until the sound came echoing back from the other side. And something else came to Eragon's attention: it felt as though a constant pressure had been lifted and a missing part of him returned, the by now familiar coldness he had never noticed creeping into him receding just a bit. At first, he could not ascribe the new feel, but then he thought he had a good guess.

He squeezed Arya's hand and stopped, focusing inwards.

– * –

Above them floated once more the sapphire blue ball of light that had served them so faithfully throughout the first part of their journey. With a sigh of relief, Eragon leant against an outcropping, healed once more. The bite had been throbbing agonisingly ever since the Ra'zac had attacked him with its beak. It had been swollen to a dark red, oozing yellow pus, but his spells had taken care of all that, as he'd cleansed the wound and repaired the damage done to tissue and muscles.

His magic had felt reluctant, it hadn't been nearly as easy as he was used to by now – in fact, he had had to consciously break the barrier in his mind as he did when first he had been taught how to lift a pebble by Brom – but the important thing was that it had worked. He drew a little more energy from the gems, and felt the burning in his tired and sore muscles abate, at least a little.

"You?" he asked and she hesitated for a moment, before she pulled up her trousers to expose a deep, bloody gash in her leg.

"Here." He lifted up his shirt, prompting her to use energy from the belt of Beloth the Wise. She looked astonished, perhaps relieved, then thankful. Placing a hand on one of the gems, she drew energy from it, and started to heal herself; confirming his guess that she was at the end of her strength. He had used less magic than her and doubted he'd be walking, had he not resorted to the energy he'd stored away.

She had been very taciturn ever since she had fought the Lethrblaka, even by her standards. Lost in thoughts, she barely had responded to what little he'd said, wrestling with whatever demons plagued her. She seemed miles away. Had she sought sanctuary in memories, or were they the cause of her troubled state?

Their surroundings seemed to present an ideal plane onto which to project sombre thoughts; dark and silent, their journey itself like a half-forgotten memory of a forlorn dream. No one was here but them, and while they walked ahead and ahead, nothing new came up; always the same empty black ground, and it was like they were not moving at all.

– * –

The ball of light floated high up, and expanded in size greatly, bathing the setting in light awide. Hours of walking had passed, it seemed like, but at last they had reached the end of the vast cavern below Helgrind. Like a pale blue sun, Eragon's werelight stood high above them, and yet still did not show the ceiling. It did, however, reveal the breathtaking landscape.

To their left gaped a chasm, not black, but red, like a wound in the ground; seemingly reaching into the middle of earth herself, illumed by the fire in her belly. Ahead, a massive, curved out wall towered, dwarfing them. There was no way around it; where it ended, on the left side, it dropped away sharply, seamlessly, into the chasm.

Eragon noticed that the wall expanded at the base even further, with countless foothills running away from it, forming a gnarled tangle of stony ridges that ran on top, throughout and athwart each other. Clinging and clawing at the edge of the red cleft, the black rock resembled nothing so much as twisting roots of a giant tree.

An identical rock formation appeared on the far side of the cave from within the dark, directly opposed to its twin, as if a mirror image of the first. Like two admonishing guardians, they stood facing each other, watching silently over the deep abyss.

Like an ever-thinning finger, the utmost branch extended over it, far out. From the other side ran a similar offshoot. In the middle, the two mighty roots _almost_ touched, like two broken fingers pointing at each other, or the halves of a destroyed bridge, spanning the chasm. They appeared all but artificially separated, so smooth were the ends.

Eragon looked around, but it was clear that the path continued on the far side of the cleft, and the only place far and wide that opened up at least a remote possibility to cross it was the bridge where the two walls forced it together more tightly than anywhere else.

They started walking on the first branches of what struck him to be the mountain's roots, which here, where they stood, were not bigger than the shaft of an arrow. Soon, though, two ran together, and they met another joint root, creating an even bigger one and so forth; and they had to balance on the ridge of the stone rise, a man's height above the ground.

– * –

Carefully, Eragon moved behind Arya on the arm that extended over the chasm.

It had started out just as thick as any other, true, but halfway along, it had dwindled down to the size of the trunk from a young birch tree. As if playing a deadly serious variant of the old child's game, where one had to jump from certain stones onto others while not touching forbidden ones, they had leaped from root to root to even come this far, always directly alongside the edge of the abyss, and they would have to cross the missing section in the middle in the same way. In curious fascination, Eragon's look went down.

Below them gaped the red abyss. Deep down, the long shadows shone in a strange light. It was no colour he could name, and the longer his gaze lingered on it, the uneasier he felt. He averted his eyes, quickly, when he thought he saw the shadows starting to crawl up the walls.

Ahead, a fine mist seemed to impend above the crevice. He watched it, filled with apprehension, while they neared the gap between the two arms. The mist wavered, like a summer's haze, almost transparent, and seemed to be confined strictly to the area of the gap, as though something kept it there, preventing it from being anywhere else. He wondered if it was the stone ridge he was standing upon.

Arya paused, then leaped gracefully through the air, crossing the mist, and landed safely on the other side, swaying a little while trying to balance the momentum on the arm yonder that was not thicker than Eragon's wrist. She appeared to be none the worse for it. After she had advanced to leave him enough space, he jumped as well. The shadows moved restlessly under him, he thought he saw movement, from the corner of his eye –

Nothing happened.

He came to a stand with his arms extended, balancing carefully, and jerked his head around. The haze still shimmered slightly, just as before, calm and undisturbed. Below his feet, the strange light glowed, the shadows crawling over the walls. He shivered and fixed his gaze firmly ahead, at the small black opening between the tangle of roots; the tunnel away from this place.

– * –

From ahead, the stench finally told of their journey's end. Eragon wrinkled his nose at the smell of death and rotting flesh. There was a soft rustling sound, but when Eragon turned his head, the tunnel behind him was empty.

Although after the gigantic cave below Helgrind the path had been easily discerned from the occasional traces the Ra'zac had left behind, it still had taken them a good while to get this far. It seemed as though the Ra'zac dwelt at the very top, as they had suspected; and so they had to ascend from the roots of the mountain to its summit.

Ahead, the tunnel turned to a cave, and Eragon frowned, stopping in his tracks. It was not much of a cell, more a widening of the tunnel than an actual cave, open on both ends. Katrina wasn't locked up behind bars, but simply chained to the wall.

In truth, though, it served much the same purpose and made no difference, he finally admitted. She couldn't go anywhere.

Perhaps even the chains were rendered unnecessary by now. She wouldn't be fleeing anytime soon on her own. Shaken, he stared at her. The Katrina he'd known had been a pretty young woman, with vibrant copper hair and a light-hearted smile on her face. The person in front of him looked prematurely aged, weighed down by despair and misery, and starved to death. Her face was gaunt, her hair grimy and dull; clinging straggly to her head.

Red welts showed where the metal of the links had chafed her skin, but not only there. Black-bluish bruises and old, scabbed wounds all over her body told a different story.

He kept down his mental barriers, just like he had in the dark, to be able to keep up a link to Arya and react to any surprises with but a thought; and felt her consent as she assumed a post on the entrance while he slowly stepped into the cave.

"Katrina!" he called.

Her eyes flew open as she heard his voice, but they held no recognition.

He tried to smile reassuringly, but she shrunk away, as far as the chains and her waning strength would allow.

"We will get you out of here," he said soothingly. She opened her mouth as if to answer, but no sound came out. She struggled feebly against the manacles that kept her near the far wall, and for a second Eragon thought he saw something shimmer next to her, but then she froze and stood stiff as a statue.

Only her chest heaved rapidly, as if she were breathing heavily, but still not even a sigh escaped her. Eragon frowned.

With quick strides, he stepped over a few gnawed off bones, disgusted; realising that they were human lower legs, when suddenly, there was a noise behind him. The faint twang of a released bowstring. The hissing of an arrow – and –

_Eragon! Wait! It's a – _Her voice broke off, turning into a desperate cry that he perceived as a mental scream inside his head.

"Arya!"

He whirled around, struggling under an onslaught of pain as his mind was flooded with feelings not his own: the searing of an arrow embedded in the chest, the burning feel that spread through the body, with each beat of the heart, as if it were liquid fire in the veins. For a moment, the world flickered and he felt sucked through their wide open link, _agitated silver flame threatened by dark shadows …_ he almost stumbled to the ground, trying to close off his mind.

Disorientated, he looked past Arya. A shadow sped away into the dark depths of Helgrind, malicious laughter hissing from the walls.

"_Brisingr!_"

The fireball splashed harmlessly against the rock, but it showed the retreating figure before it rounded the corner: another Ra'zac, smaller in size than the two they had already killed. Eragon cursed the wretched creature, and himself; bitterly. _Why had he not anticipated that there might be more than two Ra'zac?_ But every thought about his own careless mistake fled his mind when Arya gasped and slid alongside the wall, slumping down. He was leaping over to her, when a new voice brought him to a halt.

"Eragon!"

He turned, slowly. Next to Katrina's chained body, another form had appeared from seemingly nowhere. Tall, the eyes looking sharply out from under the brown hair, and with a shimmering red sword in hand; an appearance Eragon knew only too well.

"Murtagh."

– * –

For a moment neither moved. Then, when Eragon bent over Arya with a scowl to quickly see about her injury, which fortunately didn't seem life-threatening, Murtagh spoke.

"If you want the girl to live at least a few more minutes, leave the elf and come over."

He was holding Katrina's body up by her matted shock of hair with his left hand; his right slowly raising Zar'roc, pressing it against her throat. Wide brown eyes stared at Eragon, crazy with fear; but noticeably lacking any more strength. Katrina didn't struggle, she was too weak; and would Murtagh have let go of her hair, she would have slumped back onto the ground.

Eragon clenched his fists, suddenly feeling acutely aware of all his surroundings: the red sword, in all its beautiful and deadly details. The small depression where it pushed against Katrina's throat. Arya's laboured breaths on his other side. The black-feathered arrow sticking in her chest, heaving up and down, up and down. Murtagh's expression, not gleeful or enraged, but worse – indifferent.

And finally, there was his own feelings of bitter resignation, as he found the ultimate proof that Saphira's suspicions had been right, that they had followed Galbatorix's lead all along, and yet there was nothing they could have done in a different way. They had talked about the possibility of having to fight Murtagh, but never had it included him awaiting them under an invisibility spell with Katrina as his hostage, and Eragon having to face him alone. He admitted it should have. Arya had realised it at the last moment, and ere she could shout a warning, the remaining Ra'zac had taken her out.

This, he now saw it clearly, was last missing piece of Galbatorix's carefully crafted plan, with the aim to separate and thus weaken them, until such a time that he would be the lone threat left … and unable to act at all.

"What do you want?" he asked carefully, trying to hatch a plan. If he just were standing nearer to Katrina … He inched closer, keeping talking in an attempt to distract Murtagh.

"Let Katrina go and let me tend to Arya, and I shall come with you."

Murtagh showed no visible reaction.

"I rather think you overestimate your own importance, brother. Why would I need you anyplace other than here?"

Eragon stared at him.

"Well, if Galbatorix has no interest in me anymore, what is the purpose of this?"

Murtagh fixed him with a flat stare.

"The King has finally decided that your life means more trouble than the potential gain of having you on his side could justify. I agree with him."

His fingers moved, renewing the grip on Zar'roc.

"I told you to make sure we didn't cross paths again, did I not?"

Eragon's mind snapped back to what Murtagh had said on the plateau above the Burning Plains, where they had met last. He narrowed his eyes.

"Didn't you also tell me he had this wonderful vision of bringing back the dragons, for which he needed Saphira?"

Murtagh offered him a lazy smile.

"I didn't say anything about _her_ now, did I?"

Eragon's eyes widened.

"Saphira! What are you –"

"You never should have come here," interrupted Murtagh. "Surely, you had to have known that it was a trap? Did you think the King would miss a Rider, an elf and a dragon flying through the heart of his own realm? If you attack his soldiers? He has his spies everywhere. It was a fool's journey, Eragon, and you a fool for trying to attempt the impossible. Risking the best weapon of the Varden for a simple human girl …"

He shook his head.

"The King was of the opinion you would need another incentive. He did not believe you were going to come. I told him you would. You did the same for the elf."

Eragon felt acutely the sense of betrayal that was welling up inside of him. A foolish notion it might have been, the idea that after all he'd come to expect from Murtagh, he still was but a reluctant servant of the empire; and yet the irrationality of it tempered not the feelings evoked, of Murtagh using pieces of information gained by shared companionship and words spoken in trust to a friend against him – willingly this time, it sounded like, not because Galbatorix had forced him to.

And yet, it was but half of the truth – Eragon had been ready to turn around and walk away, back in the cathedral. Murtagh didn't know him as well as he thought anymore. _Have I changed that much in the short time since he and I parted ways?_

But Eragon did not even have time to fully ponder the meaning of Murtagh's words, as his brother lifted his sword wide to behead Katrina. It was as though everything was starting to fall apart in front of him.

"Now, watch as she dies. I think that should please him, for once."

"No," Eragon cried. "Wait!" His eyes darted around the cave, from Arya who was not moving, to Katrina's terrified face; he was running out of time, out of time … "Galbatorix has not ordered you to kill Katrina, then?" A faint glimmer of hope sparked in his chest, as he spoke and saw no denying from Murtagh; indeed, saw him pause; and Eragon plunged on. "Why kill her? If you want me, let her go."

Murtagh shrugged.

"Why? She has served her purpose; she was to lure you here, you came. I have no further use for her. I doubt she would enjoy life as a slave in Galbatorix's castle much, anyway."

Behind him, Arya suddenly coughed painfully. The sound cut through Eragon like a knife.

"Please," Eragon said, desperate. "I promised Roran, she is his fiancée, he loves her –"

"Then your promise was broken the moment the words left your mouth," Murtagh said contemptuously. "You really oughtn't be surprised should your word be scoffed at one day; promising do to the impossible has that effect –"

Eragon wasn't listening, having already continued.

"If Galbatorix did not order you to kill her, you don't have to. You can choose not to, I know you can – let her live."

He stared at Murtagh pleadingly. For the first time, he showed emotions, but not the one Eragon had hoped for. A wild cloud of anger settled on his forehead.

"Choices!" he laughed scornfully. "Again, you speak to me of choices. Yet you fail to see, Eragon, that having a choice can be more cruel than anything on earth. Perhaps you need a lesson."

"What –"

"Yes, I rather think you do. Stop there!" he barked. Eragon, who had edged closer all the while, halted in his tracks. A small trickle of blood ran down Katrina's throat, where the sword had nicked the skin.

"Another step and I'll cut her throat."

Eragon clenched his fists in a surge of anger, feeling helpless at the same time; worried and fearful – he wanted nothing better than to attack, but _could not_, and that was a feeling, he came to realise, that he did not like at all.

"Are you that much of a coward that you would use helpless innocents to threaten others?" he spat.

"Careful brother, I might get offended, and then –"

The sword moved a little along her throat.

Eragon's eyes flashed and he bit his tongue, to keep himself from cursing Murtagh. Something seemed off about him. His brother offered him a sardonic smile.

"There's a good boy."

Then he tilted his head, regarding him.

"Now … _you_ choose."

"What?" His words threw Eragon completely off balance. "I have no patience for stupid games, Murtagh –"

"Oh, but you should." Murtagh's eyes glittered. "That is, if you want the girl to live. Or perhaps – the elf?" He nodded towards Arya. "Your little friend is dying, you know."

Eragon blanched.

"No – why … it's no fatal wound …"

But then, why hadn't she long since tended to the wound herself? But no, it couldn't be –

"You're lying!" he shouted as though the volume could make up for the lack of conviction, because it had to be a lie – _had to –_

Panic-stricken he stared at the lifeless form of Arya on the far side of the cave. She was still breathing – although – wasn't it irregularly? Weaker than before? Was –

An amused smile tugged at the corner of Murtagh's mouth at this reaction.

"I'm wounded. You would doubt your brother's word?"

"You –"

But Murtagh switched to the Ancient Language, continuing.

"Well, I suppose you could simply take your chances. But luckily, we have an easy way out of this particular dilemma, do we not?"

His eyes started to gleam, and Eragon stepped back involuntarily.

"The arrow was poisoned, you see. It's a rare poison, one only few have the knowledge to make, for the crucial component is magical. Thusly refined, it is impossible to heal for the victim on their own; even for elves. Oh, she will try; she will reduce her heartbeat to slow the progress and remove the poison from her bloodstream, but it's a futile attempt; all she can do is prolong the time before her end.

"Even now, the poison is burning in her body and her blood. It's creeping through her veins, trying to reach her heart, closer and closer with each beat. Once it reaches it, the poison will eat it away from the inside, corrode the muscles, shred the ventricles … until it eventually stops beating."

Eragon wanted to deny, shout that this was untrue, simply because it _could not be_, but as he looked over to Arya, he saw a glistening sheen of perspiration on her forehead, and the despair in her green eyes, and he knew Murtagh spoke true, even if he wouldn't have been talking in the Ancient Language.

"I know this because I created it. Do you see now the power Galbatorix can offer?"

Fear raced through Eragon, forming a knot of icy despair at the prospect of losing Arya, the likes of which he could only imagine when faced with losing Saphira. He stared at her, wanted to run to her, unable to wrap his mind around the fact that he _might lose Arya_, but then there was Katrina on the other side, and Murtagh, who held a sword to her throat and grinned.

"Oh, don't look so terrified, Eragon. I know you're fond of her. She does look rather nice, eh? A bit cold and stuck-up if you ask me, but that's a matter of taste, I suppose. And you can yet save her, too! I just said that, did I not? It should be easy with your magical skill. You only have to forfeit the life of this girl. A life for a life, that's all."

"Don't talk like that about her," Eragon ground out. "You don't know anything – you – you –"

He couldn't think. His mind was blank, as if a storm had swept a plain, but slowly, the paralysing despair gave way to anger, and the anger broke free, his voice rising steadily.

"Why? Why are you doing this? This is no game, Murtagh! How can you ask me chose between two lives? Do you even know what –"

"Yes!" roared Murtagh. "I do! That is the point! You cannot make that choice, but _I_ should? Why? See this, Eragon! Get a small taste of what Galbatorix's and your _choices_ are like and choke on it! A small dip covered with the sweet honey of perceived freedom, while in truth it is poisoned like the arrow in your elf's heart, with no favourable outcome on either end, this day, every day! So don't tell _me_ anything about 'choices', when it is _you_ that cannot even comprehend what he's saying!

"I have no choices and I don't want any. I am bound, by my birth and upbringing, by my status and Galbatorix's magic. Nothing I do is done by my own will, and thus I am absolved of all evil. Am I not?"

During the last part, his voice took on an almost pleading tone, but as suddenly as the eruption had come, it was gone by. A detached look settled on his face, as he gazed at Eragon and paused.

"And then, I admit. I _am_ somewhat curious to see whom you will pick. Be grateful for my intrigue; for it offers you the chance to save at least one."

A cocky smirk settled on his lips.

"Really, is this not an interesting experiment? For once, it is _you_ in a quandary; I cannot even begin to describe how satisfying that is. You have come far indeed … the servants and peasants are talking, all over the country. Did you know? They named you a hero. Eragon Shadeslayer, the leader of the Varden, selfless and always just. Bah! As if it were something special to _you_. Any one idiot would do the same in your place. It is easy to be selfless and just, when you live an untroubled life. _Now_ is the time. Will you indeed sacrifice your friend for an oh-so-noble promise's sake, or will their _hero_ fall – one short moment of weakness when it would have mattered the most … and in the end, the great Eragon Shadeslayer is just as guilty and selfish as we all."

Hate welled up in Eragon, the likes of which he felt before only for the Ra'zac. "Come now," Murtagh taunted. "Quick, brother, take your pick, else time will make the decision, and lose you both and save neither."

He stared at the devil that was his brother and that was making him choose, knowing full well what he was doing and relishing it – that Eragon would get beaten, would he try and use magic against him; that he could attack with his sword, possibly even save Katrina, yet lose enough time in a duel for it to be fatal to Arya; that so, finally, he had no choice _but_ to choose. Yet how could he ever choose one over the other? He remembered the times Katrina had visited, when he'd been younger, when she always had a nice word for him, was always patient and merry.

And how Roran's eyes lit up, every time she entered the room. _Much like he felt whenever he spotted Arya ..._ Arya … Arya – or her ... Brown eyes stared at him, so terrified, brown eyes, wide in fear, looking pleadingly… _A cold winter sun, a lifetime ago; two brothers in all but blood walking out of Carvahall, back home … Roran's shoulders straightened slightly. "I want to marry." … _Green eyes on his other side, looking stonily out from behind a curtain of black hair, accepting…_ A night passed waking, with a final realisation …"You love her, don't you?" "…but while I cannot see you as anything more than a friend, you are just as certain nothing less to me …" "Eragon … will you help me? … Now I have only one goal in life, to find and rescue Katrina, if she's not already dead. Will you help me, Eragon?"_

A rush of unbidden memories, carrying him away in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Brown or green … his eyes flickered back and forth. _Why? Why me? _Mission or friend. Sworn oath shattered or happiness forever lost. It never should have gotten to this point.

_The hollow seemed ageless, as if it were removed from the world and protected by some magic against the withering breath of time. Around them, the thick pines formed a cave with their branches, hiding Eragon and Arya from the world and muffling the cool, still air._

"_Arya, I'll do anything …"_

"_Hear me well, Eragon. This cannot, nor shall ever be."_

And he started to feel a hot-burning resentment at the cruel fate that seemed to prove true her words with such terrible finality. So this was the way it was going to end?

"It isn't fair," he whispered. And again, shouting: "It's not fair!"

His words rang back to him from the cavern's walls, while he stared at Arya, spread out on the ground: her erratically heaving chest, her shallow breathing through the pain. Her hair sticky from the sweat, dirty, with streaks of grime, from a patch of mud she had fallen into. The silent tears on her face, twisted in agony from the horrible poison that burned its way through her body, toward her heart, while she refused to cry out.

She had never seemed more beautiful to him than right then.

He took a few steps towards Katrina, then hesitated again and looked back.

Her eyes widened for a brief moment, but then the look on her face became understanding, and the only emotion left was sadness.

_Save Katrina, Eragon, and bring her home if you can._

So accepting. So brave, even in the face of death. Her voice in his head, hauntingly beautiful, the world crying for the passing of one of its favourite creatures, a silver light, enveloped in infinite sadness.

_It was an honour to have known you and fight on your side. You gave me a second chance at life when all seemed lost, even if it turned out to be but a few more months. I … saw home again. For that alone, you have my eternal gratitude._

_No! Arya, I –_

_Hush, Eragon._

Eyes closed, for a last time. The small smile on her face, so peaceful, almost happy.

_I regret nothing. Keep your promise to your cousin, and save Katrina. And even if you start to doubt yourself, remember that I have faith in you. You will prevail in the end, and I am proud to call the person you are and will become my friend. May the stars watch over you and your quest, Eragon Shadeslayer._

Her voice drifted away like a soft call in the wind. A strangled sob escaped his chest. Katrina stared at him, uncomprehendingly. He looked away.

_I can't – I can't do this. Gods help me, I __**can't**__._

And Roran's face swam in front of his eyes, clouded with terrible anger and bitter disappointment, and his only thought was that Roran could never know. _…rescue Katrina, if she's not … already dead …_ A coward's lie, tasting like bitter gall in his mouth as he dared not resume that line of thought … and yet it was all swept away from his mind the moment Arya convulsed over at the entrance, and he turned around with a desperate shout and ran towards her. And he prayed for forgiveness he knew would never been given, and hated himself like he had never before when he ignored the hoarse scream of fear and betrayal at his retreating back, ignored the swishing of steel cutting through air, ignored the horrible thud on the ground and the wild laughter that followed.

It all mattered not in the face of Arya dying, who lay there as dead, not breathing; still, so still. And at this moment, would the choice have been about the war, and the price the outcome, Eragon would have forfeited victory to Galbatorix.

His heart beat wildly as he tended to her frantically. She couldn't die. Not ever and not now. Not when he had sacrificed this much, so very much. He quickly extracted the arrow, after having prepared the wound and extended his magic into her body, desperately searching for life.

For a terrible moment it seemed as if it were too late, but it couldn't be – she couldn't be gone –

A gasp. He felt like crying in relief, as she jerked, opening her eyes again, bright and clear. But he felt unable to meet her piercing look, and so he looked away; avoiding her gaze, unfathomable, hard, weighing on him heavily like the entirety of the deep green sea. He couldn't, however, avoid her voice, the one word, whispered, coming down on him like a hammer.

"Why?"

His magic racing through her body, fighting the treacherous poison that was creeping through her veins, inches away from her heart. And the question, so simple, and the answer, so impossible to speak. And he wondered if he was being a coward yet again, when still he never met her eyes, and told her in the Ancient Language: "You are one of the best fighters we have. Your mother is our greatest ally. Choosing you was logical."

Short. True. And never there was a greater lie, or so he felt.

* * *

Uh … don't hate me? Please? Or at least tell me so in a review :)

.

**CJ:**

Thanks for the review, and no, Fäolin will stay dead. There'll be enough trouble for Arya and Eragon, I don't need to add even more problems ;) As for Arya being more distant and taciturn, yes, there's something there, and it has (well, of course :P) to do with the dark magic. I'll come back to that, eventually. And yes, their relationship is coming along well, doesn't it? If only Arya wasn't – but ah, no spoilers. That's in the final part.

.

And speaking of which, since I'm a quite busy with my end-of-term exams, the last part will be up in _two_ weeks. See you then :)


	10. Choices, Part IV

**A/N:**

Well, I'm completely exhausted and only want to sleep, but as I promised, here it is. The final part of this ridiculously long chapter. That means that it's the last quick update – don't expect another update any time soon. Next month, perhaps. No promises, though.

Also, I finally bumped the story up to **M**. There's a pretty creepy scene coming up, so if you really _really_ don't like crawling things, you might want to skip the third scene with Talec – I dunno, as I said, I'm not good at assessing these things.

That aside, thanks to JWH again, I apologise (?) in advance to all E/A-fans, I'm going to bed, and goodnight.

* * *

**5. Choices: Eclipsed**

"Choices! Do you see now? Do you –! And what are _you_ now – nothing –"

Murtagh's frantic, incoherent voice echoed inside the cavern – inside his mind. And Eragon was frozen, staring at – staring _into_ her eyes – in her head, lying in a puddle of red on the ground – her empty, accusing eyes – lifeless – staring at him – and Murtagh, so wild the look in his eyes – he felt himself shaking, then, and when there was another voice in his thoughts, wearied but sweet, he clung to this sound like a lifeline –

_Flee! – Eragon, you must. Galbatorix has clearly driven him out of his mind. Seize the opportunity now, I will be alright on my own._

When he showed no reaction, she lifted her slender hand and struck him in the face. He blinked.

"Eragon! Pull yourself together! You cannot fall apart, not now!"

_How can I – I –_ He shook his head, finally concentrating back onto Arya, for the first time since he had healed her. "I cannot leave you here, Arya."

Arya made a frustrated sound.

_Hear me, we have failed in our task, now all that is left is to save our own lives. For that you need to escape, and wait not for me, for I am weakened and will hinder you and slow you down. Nasuada needs you, more than she needs me._

Recalcitrance and fear rushed through him at her words. Had he saved her but to lose her still? The thoughts from earlier lingered. _He would not lose her._

_You too are important, Arya –_

_But not as much as you. _Her voice was unyielding. _Eragon! You picked my life over hers, having weighed the advantages, and by the very same logic, you ought to judge now. I am more important than the girl, and you are more important than I._

Eragon flinched as his own argument was thrown back into his face.

_**Leave!**_

He swallowed, his mind blank, incapable of forming any coherent thought, and so he simply did as he was told, turning around slowly, facing the tunnel on the far side, his way out. Dimly, he thought he already heard the wind howling around Helgrind from ahead.

"Stop!"

Yet that short moment of arguing with Arya had cost him, and now Murtagh was looking at him, suddenly completely calm, his voice strangely flat and emotionless.

"Away from her."

"Murtagh?"

As a response Zar'roc flashed through the air, glinting in a fiery red by the pale magical light. Reflexively Eragon parried the sweeping attack, which otherwise would have beheaded him, but the sword came at him again, from the left and the right, in a hail of blows raining down on him. Eragon stumbled backwards, still surprised, doing nothing more than parrying Murtagh's blows, when the face of the other rider twisted into a sneer.

"Months of hiding in a forest to learn, and you can do no better than this? Come now, Eragon. This is laughable."

Eragon regained courage. This was Murtagh again. He tended to be overconfident, perhaps he could use that to his advantage. It was the only chance he had. The moment Murtagh decided to use magic, their fight was over.

Now actively fighting and not as tired as he'd been on the plateau above the Burning Plains, he realised how easily he could defend against Murtagh's attacks. Murtagh was good, great even, but if Eragon concentrated on the fight, he saw Zar'roc move through the air at an almost leisurely pace, allowing him enough time to plan and execute a parry.

This was how it was for every elf, Eragon realised. It was no wonder even an average elfin swordmaster would be unbeatable by any human – they were just too fast.

He brought his sword up yet again, trying to spot a weakness in Murtagh's fighting. There was only one chance to strike, he thought as he sidestepped Zar'roc. If Murtagh realised that he was outclassed, he would surely strike with magic and kill him. Again, Murtagh thrust his sword at him, and again Eragon had already evaded. He noticed Murtagh bending his knees a little more than usual during the execution of the attack, to allow himself greater flexibility.

Eragon was now holding his ground; careful not to attack too vigorously, waiting for the opening. All he permitted himself to do was tearing Murtagh's clothes and nicking his skin with the outmost tip of the blade. He moved his sword from the inside outwards, clashing it against Zar'roc with a resonant metallic clang. For a short spell, they remained in that position, blades locked. Eragon stared into Murtagh's blue eyes. Something flickered through them, a shadow of red, perhaps, but it was gone before he could truly discern it.

Everything was silent.

Then, Eragon yielded on purpose, and Murtagh pushed away his blade. And again, he went into a fractionally deeper crouch.

Eragon smiled grimly and was already leaping sideways, when Murtagh executed his lunge, just like he had anticipated; in an attempt to exploit Eragon's blade pointing away from his body, unable to protect him. Simultaneously, Eragon brought his sword back inside in a short arc. Murtagh's eyes widened, but was unable to stop his thrust. It passed Eragon on his right and then Murtagh was pierced by the elfin blade in the chest.

Confusion and disbelief filled Murtagh's eyes. Eragon yanked his sword back out, stained deep crimson, and Murtagh's mouth opened. Eragon swished his sword in a final sweep –

"Letta!"

Eragon felt his body freeze in mid-movement. Murtagh was on his knees, coughing up blood, but then, through the torn fabric of his vest, Eragon spotted the wound starting to close. Now it was his turn to stare. And suddenly, he felt fear. The fatal wound disappeared as though it had never been, Murtagh spat out a last gob of red, and then a smile stretched over his face.

He rose again, nodding to Eragon.

"Congratulations brother. You won."

He lifted his left hand and Eragon rose, floating through the air.

"Pity that the outcome of our struggle was never going to be decided by a trial of arms, eh?"

Eragon could still not move, but through his field of vision, he saw Arya floating towards him.

He struggled against the magic that bound him, even though he knew it was futile. He used all he had left to unfreeze his jaw, and it was all he could do not to gasp at the amount of power that rushed out of him, leaving him feeling cold and aching.

"Rot – rot in hell, Murtagh."

Murtagh laughed.

"Maybe. We will see. But I fear you will be waiting there for a while without me. After all, I have to see after Saphira, don't I?"

Panic began to settle in Eragon's chest again, and this time it was not magic constricting it, but pure terror. He struggled in another vain attempt to free himself, despairing when it would change naught about his state, thoughts only circling around the ominous words.

"Saphira! What do you plan on doing to her?"

"Ah, Eragon. Did you never make the connection? Remember, Galbatorix stole his second dragon when it was already bonded. He needed to know of a way to kill a rider while the dragon survived and forge a new bond by himself, didn't he? Saphira will live, you will die, and in a few years hence we will have a new generation of Riders. _That_ was Galbatorix's plan."

"No!"

But no matter howsoever much he screamed and fought, his struggle against Murtagh's magic was useless. He dimly heard Arya asking something, and Murtagh answering, but it was all far away, only Saphira occupied his thoughts, and he could not reach her, through Helgrind's stone, and Murtagh was going to take her away, and –

Being roughly dumped onto the hard ground shook him momentarily out of his state of sheer panic. Murtagh had floated both of them along the corridor and into a cave that was perfectly circular. Inside, there was a small chest made out of dark wood.

For a moment he was lucid enough to hear Arya asking a final question.

"And the egg? Was it ever here?"

Murtagh picked up the chest.

"Oh, you mean this? Yes, I had it here. Galbatorix thought he would need it to convince you to come, but as it turned out, it was unnecessary. Now it will return to his treasury, back in Urû'baen. He likes to look at it."

He gave the cave a final sweeping glance, then turned around to leave.

"Well, goodbye, Eragon. It was nice knowing you."

And then he was gone, and Eragon suddenly felt the hold of Murtagh's magic over him slip, but before he could even do so much as move a finger, a gigantic blast shook the cave. A gust of superheated air hit him from the opening, burning his face; he was thrown backwards by the force of it, and then rocks started to fall as the ceiling near the entry caved in, the bits of stone glowing bright white like molten lava.

In the span of moments, the exit was shut, a solid barrier of rocks that fused with the surrounding walls as the stone solidified. A searing pain ripped through his mind, and the laughter echoed from the walls, over the thundering rumble of falling stone further away, for a few seconds longer, then there was only silence.

And in the cave, now completely cut off from the outside and enclosed in Helgrind's _black_ stone, Eragon pressed his hands over his ears and started to scream.

# # #

Violet eyes stared unblinkingly north, at the dusty, yellow-brown horizon shimmering under the heat of the hot Surdanian sun. Nothing was there; or at least nothing for the average eye, so whatever it was that rooted her to the spot here on the small crest had to be something that was for her senses alone.

A tall cat with shaggy hair and strange, golden eyes swept around her, rubbing against her legs, purring. Absent-mindedly, she bent over and stroke its back, then lifted it up; even though it was almost half as big as her.

"It's coming, Solembum," she said. "Can you feel it? The storm. It's coming, to wash away the last remnants of the old age and carry in the fresh smell of a new … and it's upon all of us to decide if it will perpetuate the coming darkness in an eternal night, or bring forth a new dawn. Whichever way we choose though, when it is gone, the war will be over."

And then the child continued to stare into the distance, looking pleased. The cat – Solembum – squirmed in her arms.

"Don't do that," she admonished him, then cocked her head.

"Indeed? I might tell Nasuada …"

She trailed off, petting his back, again lost in thoughts; a surprisingly calculating expression on her face, which mocked the image of a sweet child and looked frightfully out of place.

"I think I will," she decided.

Then she giggled suddenly.

"And _he_ is stuck in the heart of darkness, is he not? Oh, she will not be pleased. Not at all."

She paused, as though listening to a response for her ears only, then spoke again.

"Oh, I know that, of course. But since I no longer am bound by _his_ curse I can decide what to say, whom to help and when. We all have our roles in this little play, do we not? But additionally, we all are guilty, we all have sinned, each of us; and so, she too will fall before the end, just like we all. As each of us finds the one stone that makes us stumble, so shall that be hers. That part is set, is it not? The only question is who will rise again."

She spun around, placing the cat on the ground and started to skip down the slope.

"We best hurry, if the Dark Tide is nigh upon us, as you said, Solembum."

– * –

Captain Demetrius was enjoying the quiet evening with warm ale – the good one, from Teirm, not the stuff they made in Surda – when the door to the command post burst open. Entering was a red-faced soldier, breathing heavily as he saluted. Just about to reprimand him, Demetrius was beaten to the punch.

"Scout Talec, sir. I wish to report: a strange … uh, thing, northerly ahead!"

Demetrius rose slowly, staring at the soldier. A heavy scowl settled on his face.

"Strange, Scout?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded eagerly. The silence stretched between them. Demetrius' face reddened. Finally, his fist slammed down onto the table, causing the tankard to jump.

"By Hosportius! Would you, by any chance, _mind telling me what exactly is strange_? Am I supposed to read your mind, man?"

The scout startled and stumbled over his words in an attempt to explain himself as quickly as possible. Demetrius sighed loudly.

"One of the draftees?"

He beheld the scout more closely. His face was still round, boyish, with only the barest beginning of adulthood visible.

Demetrius snorted.

"Bah, look at you. You're barely grown up. What am I supposed to do with boys like yourself? Back in my days, you would have been helping out on the fields."

He shook his head. "All because of the cursed King and his war." To the stuttering scout, he added: "Slowly, man. Calm yourself, and then try again."

Talec took a deep breath. Demetrius nodded encouragingly.

"Yes, that's better. Now … you were saying?"

"Yes, I am new – no, that is, I mean, of course, sir, I will tell you now – the strange thing – it is … a … wall?"

Demetrius stared at him. For a few seconds everything was utterly silent. Then, he exploded. His voiced boomed through the small room, rattling the windows.

"Scout Talec! Are you having me on? A wall! Bah! Was it a brick wall or perhaps a palisade, eh? I'll have you flogged, and then we will see if you still think pulling your captain's leg is funny –"

The young scout was shaking like a leaf, but he was no coward. He straightened and interrupted the thundering captain.

"But I swear! By the grave of my mother, sir, it looks just like a black wall, up north!"

Demetrius grunted and stopped his rant, pushing his chair back.

"Bah, bah! A black wall, I should confiscate the beer and wine rations. Now pull yourself together, stop babbling nonsense, and tell me exactly what you saw and when and where. Don't they teach anyone anything anymore these days during the drills?"

Talec stared at him blankly.

"What drills, sir?"

"My point exactly," growled Demetrius. He tore his uniform jacket from a hook at the wall. The scout stared at him, confused; but slightly bolstered by the fact that he was no longer shouting, he spoke up again.

"Captain, sir, if I might make a suggestion – I saw it approximately an hour ago. I was assigned to the new border patrol, the furthest north of the camp, where we can watch the edge of the Forest of Melian. It took me as long to get back. I think you might be able to see it for yourself by now if you climb up the tower, since I could have sworn it was moving, towards us."

Demetrius took that new important bit of information presented in a by-the-way fashion with another sigh.

"Well, what are you waiting for, then? Show me what you think you've seen."

They left the hut and crossed the mostly empty parade ground in the middle of the camp. The tower Talec had meant was a wooden construct, a watchtower in the exact centre of the encampment, perhaps fifty feet high. He started to climb up the ladder after the captain. Demetrius pushed up the trapdoor, startling the man on watch at the tower platform.

He recovered quickly, saluting his superior.

"Captain Demetrius, sir. No happenings of importance."

Demetrius snorted and walked to the northern side, looking out into the Empire, over the slightly hilly countryside, glowing red and gold in the light of the setting evening sun. Talec joined him, pointing into the distance. They were on enemy territory almost ten leagues off the Surdanian border; Eclesius, the Lord of Cithrí, had occupied this small stretch of land, between his city and the Burning Plains. It held a few tactically advantageous hills, upon one of which this camp had been erected. The Forest of Melian, stretching to the south of the city whose name it bore, wasn't quite visible from here.

"There, on the horizon. It looks like clouds from here, but I tell you, it is a black wall!"

The captain squinted to see more clearly. If it was only clouds, it was a massive bank.

"Well, at the very least, you warned us about a thunderstorm, Scout Talec. That's something."

Talec flushed as the other man on the tower sniggered.

Demetrius head jerked around at once.

"Is something funny here, Garzus? Last time I looked into the site directives, extraordinary weather phenomena were still included in the lists of mandatory reports. Didn't see _you_ on the way down to my rooms."

Now Garzus flushed and looked away.

Captain Demetrius grunted satisfied, and turned back to the tower opening.

"Now let's see what in the three devils' name this is."

– * –

She walked over the dry, cracked land, deeply furrowed and hard-baked from the blazing heat of the summer sun; the northern horizon now at her back. In front of her, maybe a mile away, were the heat-shimmering walls of a city, heavily fortified and seemingly invulnerable; with a huge expanse of earth-coloured dabs on its right side, a sea of tents: Cithrí was a garrison town and now home to the main body of Surda's troops, as well as the Varden. It was the nearest city in Surda to the Burning Plains, a comfortable three-day's ride away, but the slow-moving trek with the ponderous wagons and even livestock had needed more than a week to get there.

Jumping over a rock, she turned into a rutted lane that lead towards the city. Above, an iridescent bee-eater filled the air with its clear trill, swerving sharply across the steel-blue sky in hunt of a little beetle. She kicked away a small stone lying by the wayside, full of high spirits; laughing merrily when it knocked into one of the thick-leafed, dark green-waxern shrubs and ignited a round of indignant chattering from inside. Solembum hissed.

"Don't be such a cat," she told him.

– * –

"Hold the gate!" Demetrius roared over the howling storm. He was standing with his legs apart in the centre of the camp, on a small platform. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed almost simultaneously, cleaving the sky asunder and almost swallowing his words.

"If that gate is breached, the magic of the wards will dissipate and we're all doomed. And what the hell is that white stuff?"

"Snow, sir! I grew up north; in winter, instead of raining, it snows," called a zealous soldier, who had heard the question as he came running to join the group at the gate.

Demetrius' head jerked around, fixating the man.

"I know what snow is, Haqod! We _are not_ up north. Rephrase: what the hell is it doing here?"

Any answer that might have been given was drowned by yet another sonic boom, as the lightning-heated air expanded. The air grew colder by the second. The air Demetrius exhaled condensed, and settled as pale white icicles in his grey beard.

Aspholus, his second in command, joined him at his side.

"Is that the new tactic of that cowardly whelp?" he asked. "He got his backside whipped by our army, so he now sends cold and darkness?"

Demetrius made to answer, but before he could utter a word, the shield flared to life. Small objects seemed to pelt it. Shouts started to emerge from the group that secured the gate, as the transom buckled.

"We can't keep the gate shut any longer –"

In a flash, Demetrius' attention was back at the men pushing against the straining wooden construction.

"You will, or by the gods, I'll have your –"

The gate exploded inwards. The shield flashed deep crimson once more, and then died. The next moment, the storm swept through the breach like a raging beast. It tore at the tents, and knocked them away effortlessly. The lightning touched everything with its glaring shine, making the world transparent for the shortest of moments, and impossibly dark afterwards.

When the light flared again, the tower was struck. For the blink of an eye, the image was burned into the sky; the tower, slanted at an hazardous angle, suspended in time and space, until everything was plunged back into darkness and time snapped back into reality with a vengeance. Screams cut through the air, as the tower came crashing down.

Demetrius jumped from his platform.

"You aaaah –"

A strange whizzing descended down on the camp, sounding eerily in the thick darkness, a bodiless sound, everywhere at once.

By the next flash of lightning, everything was still. A deep, frightening silence hung over the devastated camp, where nothing moved anymore.

– * –

She finally spotted the source of the chattering noise; a desert squirrel had stuck its yellow head out of the bush the stone had hit, still scolding vigorously, looking for the perpetrator; but it ducked back down in the blink of an eye as fleet-footed steps started to cause the ground to vibrate, barely noticeable. Soon, twelve tall forms approached on the same path she had taken, in a light, steady run, their garments simple but of high quality: tunics, dusty from a long travel.

Six of them were male, while the other six were female; however, with the exception of one, lean they all were, with long hair from midnight or starlight, their faces regular and void of any signs of age: they were elves. Unsurprised, she turned around, intently looking at each of the twelve who had halted, a few feet away.

"I will be going to Nasuada," she stated. "You may follow me."

The elves stayed in place, unmoving, simply looking at her, until they spotted Solembum prowling around her legs. The group bowed as one and the one smaller woman stepped forth; with fair hair and deep blue eyes. She looked delicate, almost fragile; beautiful like the soft touch of the first rays from a morning's sun in a breath of dawn.

"Greetings, child and Wise One."

Solembum meowed, and it sounded suspiciously like a yawn; however his human companion was silent and kept on staring at the newly arrived. Eventually, she said quietly: "You would not wish to tarry. Time is precious these days; the Dark Tide is nigh on your heels."

And with that, she resumed her path, even as the woman bowed again and answered in her melodious voice.

"You speak true and your counsel is wise. We accept your offer, Star Child. Lead us to she who is the leader of the Varden."

But she was already walking away, and it wasn't even certain she had heard the words. If the elves were offended, though, they showed none of it; simply following her on the dusty lane towards the city ahead.

– * –

The timid looks, fearful when they met her violet eyes, awed when they stole glances at the silver star on her forehead shining in the sunlight, they were nothing new. People always glanced at her with either feeling, but both reactions always lead to the same result: people were not comfortable in her presence. They did as if they were, trying to act normal and thus failing to do so by default; sneaking those looks at her when they thought she wasn't watching, whispering, behind her back.

It wasn't like that now.

Elves were something different altogether, and now people stared openly, agape with astonishment. Elves were creatures of myths and legends, subjects of the tales from the oldest people, told to them by their fathers, and to them by _their_ fathers. Not even the oldest doter had ever seen elves, and in their annoying small-mindedness that held as true only that which they could see, many even believed them to be mere figments, products of the fanciful minds of story tellers.

And there was nothing so misleading and unreliable as your eyes, she thought derisively.

Whispers jumped from one onlooker to the next as daily work, in smithies and bakeries, was abandoned without a second thought to gawk at the strange procession of the blessed child – or the witch's child (it depended on whether the miller's apprentice or the maid from the castle was talking, she decided, and whether it was a Thursday or a Friday), the werecat and a dozen stoic elves all walking through the streets, up to the fastness built on a large rocky rise, in the centre.

– * –

Inside the castle, behind the thick walls of yellow sandstone, the air was cooler. A few minutes later, she bounded down the corridor, followed by the group of elves and with Solembum by her side. Woven tapestries lined the inner wall, while the outer one held small, glassless openings to let inside the last rays of the sinking western sun, dyeing the depicted battle scenes or celebrations on the other side blood red. After the corridor took a turn for the left, even the small openings vanished, and the only remaining light was the uncertain glow of coal pans and dim candles.

She paused in front of a tapestry showing a filigreed dragon flying over the land, and pulled at a certain stone in the wall behind it. A soft rustle sounded throughout the corridor, and then she slipped past the dragon tapestry on its right side, where it edged the next, vanishing into the wall.

Curious, one elf of the group trailing her lifted the tapestry, revealing a hole in the wall. He started to examine the mechanism and laughed softly in delight as the secret door slid back and forth before a sharp look from the petite elf finally prompted him to enter as well.

The narrow tunnel behind the wall led down for a while and then sharply to the left; the darkness was complete but she needed no light, and neither did the elves. A little draught and a dim gleam told of a nearing end. Another turn, and the secret passage opened to a small chamber, holding a bed, a table and a chair. One side was veiled by a thick purple curtain.

She burst through it, into a spacious wood-panelled study, bouncing up and down.

"Nasuada, Nasuada! Look who's here!"

The study was not empty, though. Apart from Nasuada, sitting in a straight-backed chair behind an imposing, light-yellow cedar desk where papers were stacked, the broad form of Roran stood there, looking not entirely comfortable; and through a door on the far side framed by two hulking Urgals, King Orrin entered just then, muttering to himself. She disregarded them all, focused solely on Nasuada.

The dark-skinned woman frowned, looking up.

"Is it important, Elva? I was discussing a few things with Roran, and – oh, Orrin –"

"Nasuada, wonderful! I was wondering, regarding this petition of my vicegerent, in Aberon –"

Nasuada sighed.

"Well, that is that, I suppose. Orrin, in a second. I apologise, Roran, it seems like we have to finish the discussion in regards to your status amongst the Varden later tonight. Now, what is it, Elva?"

Elva stopped bouncing for a moment, peering now intently at her.

"The Dark Tide is coming. You needed to know, so I decided to tell you."

"The – what? Elva, you are confusing me. Stop bouncing, please. What, exactly, is this Dark Tide?"

If Elva expected Nasuada to immediately grasp whatever meaning there was in her words, she did not give any indication on it; she sat down on a chair, looking decidedly uninterested, as the face of the Varden's leader only showed confusion and a little exasperation.

"The Dark Gates have been opened. I was walking with Solembum. He told me, but then we encountered _them_."

Elva yawned, and stretched her arms.

"I'm tired. They can tell you."

She pointed to the curtain that parted again, and revealed the twelve elves. Nasuada started to rub her temples, but stood up at once, almost knocking over a stack of papers. Orrin was thunderstruck and Roran watched in silence.

Again, the petite elf walked ahead, and the rest followed behind her.

"Greetings, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, and leader of the Varden."

She bowed, touching two of her fingers to her lips.

"Atra esterní onto thleduin."

Nasuada replied: "Atra du evarínya ono varda."

The other woman smiled.

"Your little ambassador here was kind enough to lead us to you. I am Deïa the Fair from the House of Aiedail. Let me introduce my companions."

She went and told the names of the other elves, and just as she was finished, Orrin had regained his bearings an exclaimed: "The spellcasters! Truly, this is good and welcome news! I welcome you to the Kingdom of Surda and to the humble confines of the citadel of Cithrí. Had I known of your arrival beforehand, why, I would have arranged a banquet. An event such as this is a time to rejoice, when what little happiness these dark times offer are like a ray of sunshine –"

"Orrin!" Nasuada interrupted impatiently. "We have no time for digressing speeches. Something is happening in the Empire and –"

"Nonsense, Nasuada! For once, we have all the time in the world. You have read the reports of Eclesius' scouts just like I did, Galbatorix is still busily doing nothing after that grand victory of ours. The border is peaceful and safe. Had that changed, you would know it already. Now, as I was saying, I shall send for the preparations of a banquet, to which all of you are –"

"You would do well to listen, King of the Darkened Realm." Elva's violet eyes fixated him, with an odd, twisted smile on her lips, and after a short while, he looked down, uneasy. "The weather is changing, heralding the storm that is about to descend upon you. As we speak, it has already breached your borders."

Orrin looked at her unkindly.

"Now listen here, child. As I said, the scouts would have reported –"

"Only a fool would spent his time waiting for them," Elva said. "Will you be one, King Orrin?"

"What do you mean? Speak up! You are hiding behind fancy words, yet where is the meaning, I ask?"

"The meaning, King Orrin, is such: no one will come. Oh, they tried to warn you, I'm sure; they fled the storm, but the Dark Tide swallowed them all, a fate which might yet befall you as well. Only the elves, fleet of foot as only they are, were able to outrun it, and even so, just barely."

Orrin gaped at her.

"Your scouts are, at this time, dead." Elva offered him a smile that lacked any warmth whatsoever. "Or, if they are truly unlucky, they wish they were."

He almost staggered backwards, then pulled himself a chair, sitting down heavily. But it wasn't only Orrin. Her words seemed to affect everyone in the room. Only the elves showed no reaction at all. Deïa seemed to regard her with curiosity completely unaffected by the heavy, uncomfortable silence that now filled the room.

"What – what is this?" Orrin croaked finally. "More of Galbatorix's madness?"

Nasuada turned to Deïa.

"Is it true?"

The elf didn't answer right away.

"You have an unusual child here," she said.

Over Nasuada's face darted a fleeting, distracted smile.

"Yes, she can predict the outcome of some things yet to come on the occasion, as well as know things that happened without her present; a by-product of an otherwise unfortunate blessing Eragon bestowed on her."

Deïa smiled as well. "For sure, that would count as peculiar. But I was talking about her unusually sharp mind."

All of a sudden, as quickly as the weather on a day in April, her mood shifted, and with it, the light in the room seemed suddenly dimmer. She stared at Nasuada in dark seriousness.

"I bring dark tidings, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad. From what little the child knew, everything it concluded is true."

– * –

He knew he wouldn't make it.

The wind came in strong gusts, seemingly from all directions at once, almost knocking him to the ground. Somehow, he stayed on his feet and struggled on. The ice-cold blasts had made him lose the feel in his fingers and his feet long since. He never had felt that kind of cold before. If his fingers would have fallen off, he thought, he wouldn't have noticed. Sure, there had been pain, at first, agonising pain on his unprotected limbs – burning cold drills piercing through his flesh, but that had been hours ago.

And then he could think no more, because he had to run and was stumbling again.

Talec knew the reason of it all; it was that black wall he was fleeing from. The captain had sent him and two other scouts south, as soon as he had seen it. They had become separated a long time ago, but Talec thought he'd come the furthest. He knew the land, since he had grown up here; which was the reason he had been picked, even though he was still tired from the earlier patrol.

The next camp was only another mile away, but that didn't matter.

Finally, it would be over for him as well. He looked over his shoulder without stopping his run and screamed in horror. On the last few hundred yards, it had at least halved the distance between them. It devoured the land step after step; he was now able to see it move over the brittle grass, saw it wilt where the blackness touched it and then vanish.

He couldn't run any faster. He was exhausted, from the first exertion and now from his long flight from the closing darkness

No, the mile felt endless. He imagined the constantly advancing darkness licking on his heels, dark and rotten, felt almost certain that every breath he took sucked in foul air, fumes, which instead of supplying him with the much needed oxygen, poisoned his lungs. Did it not hang veil-like over the evening? The red glowing sun dipped below the horizon, dirty and pale, not as clear as he remembered it from so many other evenings.

Behind him, he heard a soft rustle, where the grass was swallowed by the black curtain reaching from there up to the thick bank of clouds that preceded it, an enormous rotating roller, threatening flashes streaking over the front. A hut-like building shimmered in the fading light through the trees.

The barn.

Perhaps that was his rescue.

Talec was already inside the orange grove that surrounded it, but likewise the storm had picked up, robbing his breath; and the lightning had jumped to its aid and begun to tear apart the air as well. It thundered and howled in his ears, and suddenly, it started to rain ice; hard, sharp shards of ice; pushed into his face by the wind, pelting him mercilessly. It cut his face and blood ran down his cheek, but he paid it no mind. He pushed himself onwards, in a last, desperate attempt to flee.

Behind him, on the trees, the leaves wilted and the ripe oranges rotted, then burst open, spilling out hundreds of worms as long and thick as a grown man's finger. They hit the ground with a wet plop and were immediately afterwards swallowed by the rapidly advancing darkness.

The building was right ahead. He had to reach it – just a few more steps –

– and the night caught up with him. All of a sudden, it was perfectly dark. If he had thought he could feel nothing anymore, he was disabused of that notion now. It was ice-cold, burning his bare legs like a fire, and he screamed in pain. He stumbled around, felt his legs disobey him, reached for the door, but couldn't find it. His legs finally gave out, frozen off and he fell. In the darkness, he couldn't see a thing, but he heard noises. Then the lightning flashed again, showing him an army of whirring insects. Afterwards, everything was dark once more.

By the next flash of lightning, Talec saw bugs the size of his palm and bigger, and locusts as big as a child's foot, gathered in a dark cloud. Instead of whirring softly, it now buzzed angrily. On the ground, a revolting mass of obscenely enlarged worms, crawling on top of each other and around each other covered the earth.

The flashes burned dancing images into his eyes, he felt blinded, yet was able to spot the army of giant locusts descend on the fields bordering on the grove, devouring the corn in seconds.

Alike, things happened all around him. Terrified, he crawled onwards, found the door, ripped it open, trying to hide –

The door crumbled under his touch, consumed by pale white woodworms longer than his finger. They crawled over his hand and he screamed again as their mandibles started to bite, shaking his hand wildly, trying to _get them off_ –

And then, they all came for him.

He had just enough time to plunge himself into his own sword, which luckily killed him at once and spared him the feeling of being eaten alive and from the inside, as bugs and worms descended down on him and entered mouth and nose and drilled themselves in ear and eyes.

– * –

Orrin looked ill. He had blanched in his seat, frozen, his mouth open, but no sound coming out. Nasuada appeared to be less affected, but with her dark skin, it was hard to tell.

"That is what we felt, and what you are to expect. The land, the plants and animals cry in pain as they are subjected to a chaos against all natural order, forced to be what they were never meant to. The source is the darkness, no mere night, but a powerful spell instead, emitting an evil and malevolent feel; bringing with it a weather that is of the utmost north, where there is nothing but ice and snow and coldness."

"How can that be?" whispered Nasuada finally. Orrin was still staring blankly out of the small window. "What kind of might does Galbatorix possess, to unleash that hell on earth onto an entire country, miles and miles away from Urû'baen? Is his accursed power boundless?"

Deïa was silent.

"He may be the cause of the Dark Tide, however, the source he is not," Elva stated suddenly.

"How can he be one and not the other, Elva?" Nasuada exclaimed. "That makes no sense."

The girl in the chair crossed her arms in front of her.

"It does too. I do not doubt that he causes it, but as you said, he currently is in Urû'baen, while Solembum told me it originates from Helgrind, of course."

Her expression changed at her last words, while she once more stared intently at Nasuada. For the shortest instant, the woman's hand clenched the backrest of her chair, so strongly that the wood creaked, before she abruptly turned away, under the weight of Elva's gaze. A strange, fleeting smile appeared on lips of the child, though no one except Deïa noticed.

When Nasuada turned back around, her face told nothing.

"Eragon is there," she offered. Only the barest inflection was audible when she said his name.

Elva seemed to feel no need to answer what hadn't been a question. Deïa, however, stiffened.

"The Shur'tugal?" she inquired, her voice still as polite as before, but with an underlying sharpness. "I am not certain I understand. I assumed his absence here was due to very urgent errands he and Saphira Bjartskular had to run. Yet what would he be doing in the heart of the darkness? I was not aware that my Queen would withhold such vital information from me, considering she sent us to find him."

"I do not presume to know the mind and the motives of your Queen," Nasuada countered. "I could hardly say what she would and would not do and why. Eragon, however, is there to make good on a promise he made; in rescue of his cousin's fiancée and to kill the remaining Ra'zac. He set out three weeks ago."

"Her meaning was such, Nasuada, leader of the Varden, that our Queen would, indeed, _not_ withhold this particular information, for there is no sense in it. It stands to reason, then, that she was not informed."

One of the other elves, who as an entirety until that point had neither moved nor spoken, had suddenly uttered this. It was one of the male elves, dark haired, with sharp aquiline features and a deprecating look.

Deïa darted him a quick look, and his mouth snapped shut.

"Kálin is correct. This situation is most unfortunate; doubly so as you allowed him to leave without our counsel. We would regret having to inform the Queen that his life was put at risk due to your actions. You must see that this is a trap laid by Galbatorix."

"We agreed that together with Saphira, he would be able to overcome any possible opponents, save for Galbatorix himself, which made the risk calculable. We also assumed Arya told you." Nasuada frowned. "After all, she was adamant about accompanying him."

Deïa's eyes widened, and with a few, quick strides, she was at her desk.

"How could you!" she hissed. "Sending her into the heart of the enemy territory. You know of her status! How could you –"

"What is this with Arya and Eragon, now?"

Orrin had come out of his stupor, looking displeased.

"I demand to know –"

"Orrin –"

"Queen Islanzadí has –"

"Ah, why are we talking about this, anyway?" Orrin banged his fist onto the desk, interrupting the elf and Nasuada. "Wherever they are, there is nothing we can do for them. They might even be lucky. I doubt that Galbatorix would lay waste his own kingdom, as mad as he is. So inside the Empire, it just might be more bearable, or even completely absent. We have to worry about ourselves. What can we do to stop this monstrosity?"

He jumped up, pacing on the deep burgundy rug that covered the floor in front of the desk.

"You called it the Dark Tide. If it behaves like a tide, we stop it like one. We shall erect some kind of – a boulder, to keep it at bay …"

Deïa, who had turned to speak to Nasuada, glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.

"You seem to forget that it has already passed your border. If ever there even was a time for actually impeding it, it has long past. Stopping it now means, in truth, stopping Galbatorix. And as it is no mere fluke of ill weather, but magical of nature, it demands magical defences. Would you have your magicians try to cover the entirety of Surda with spells, mayhap?"

Orrin reddened.

"Well, if that is so foolish an idea, then what would you suggest? And what about you? Certainly, you are much stronger than any one of my magicians. We are near the border. From Cithrí, we could create a spell similar to the one that guards the borders of Du Weldenvarden. With your help, it just might be possible!"

"It took the combined effort of all of our kind and thousands of years to strengthen our borders to the point they are now, and they might yet yield against Galbatorix. You are vastly underestimating the energy a spell of that size would require. We lack both people and time. It is impossible."

He bristled at her continuously dismissive tone.

"You are quick to reject any of my ideas, yet mean with yours, elf. So I ask again: what would you have me do? Lend me your expertise in saving my kingdom, I am all ears."

Deïa's eyes rested on him, pensive, examining him for a long while, until he began to get uncomfortable under her gaze and started fidgeting. Finally she said: "Hear me, then, King Orrin. Do not try to shield your entire kingdom, like I know you are about to do. It cannot be done. Attempting the impossible will result in losing it all, and awarding Galbatorix an easy victory. The strength and numbers of your magicians are unknown to me; but you should be fine in covering this city and the immediate principality, including the camps of your army. Restricting the wards to an area the size such as this, you should be able to weave a spell strong enough to weather the coming storm."

Orrin looked at her, shock clearly written in his face.

"This … city? And what about the rest of my kingdom?"

Deïa was silent.

"No. This – you can't be serious!"

He sat down onto the chair heavily.

"You would tell me … you – give up for lost my kingdom?"

"You asked for my advice," Deïa said softly. "I gave it, as best I could. The decision is yours, but I urge you to listen."

Orrin jumped up again, exploding into anger.

"_Listen?_ Of course I will not! I would be a fool, and a poor regent withal, would I listen to this nonsense you call advice! Telling me to stand by and watch idly as Galbatorix devours my land? That is unacceptable!" he shouted out furiously. "Perhaps that is how you and your kind act in your forest, resigning yourself to do nothing and only watching while the rest of the world descends into madness, but I tell you now, we here –"

"Orrin!" Nasuada hissed. "What are you saying! You –"

"Nothing but the truth, Nasuada! I will not simply surrender what my great-grandfather and his father fought bitterly to wrest from Galbatorix, and any word suggesting so is an insult …" he trailed off when he noticed Deïa's eyes resting on him, again, in quiet graveness, weighing him, in a stark contrast to himself, whose face was flushed in anger and agitation. Her penetrating gaze bore through him, or at least it felt that way. When she spoke, her voice was decidedly cool.

"Yes, King Orrin. The darkness will fall, whether you deem it acceptable or not, and there is nothing you, or anyone, can do to stop it now. I merely told you of the circumstances and warned you against attempting to do what cannot be done. For your own sake as much as ours, I would you came to see the truth in my words."

She paused and considered something.

"You should have faith in your people, they might yet surprise you. There is nothing to say they will be eradicated to the last. Humans have shown a curious ability to escape the most improbable of odds; even I recognise this."

She turned around to face Nasuada, apparently having said all she intended, but Orrin was far from finished.

"So you suggest I leave them to chance, to live or die as fate will have it? That I accept it as some sort of price I have to pay to save the rest? You would not speak the same, were it your kind we are talking about! It is easy to say such, when you are not the one affected."

Deïa's look turned even colder at his words, and her posture now exuded a certain air of impatience.

"Yes. Be assured that I would. This is war, and such is the nature of it, and the decision any leader has to make: weighing lives against other lives. The only viable measure can be to save as many lives as possible in the long run, which may mean that sacrifices have to be made in the short term. You have to have known that. Did you expect to come out of this unscathed?"

Orrin was struck speechless for the moment, while Deïa stated with an air of finality: "And also, it seems to me, King Orrin, that your actual quarrel is not with me but with reality. And that is a fight which you cannot win."

She turned back to Nasuada, and left Orrin to sputter in outrage.

"I apologise for my earlier behaviour. Wartime gets to us all, but that is not an excuse I shall allow, it was out of place. However, you will understand that since we were sent for Eragon Shadeslayer, to aid and protect him at all costs, we cannot help you here. Our aid to ward your Varden we will give, but there is nothing more I can do. We will leave within the hour, to be gone before the storm reaches the city and traps us inside." She glanced at Orrin. "We already have tarried here for far too long."

"What?" exclaimed Orrin. Nasuada seemed surprised by the sudden declaration, but Orrin was staring at her with sheer disbelief.

"Now wait just a moment! You come here before us, tell us some kind of horrible magical storm is coming and that we lack spellcasters like yourself to protect ourselves sufficiently, and then you just … leave?"

He reddened by the minute.

"That is – my word! That won't do, that won't do at all! Yes, our magicians are neither ready nor prepared for this, so you are by far the best chance of creating a solid bulwark against Galbatorix's magic we have. We are very thankful to your Queen for sending you to aid us. It truly could not have happened at a more fitting time."

He waved his arms wildly through the air.

"I say we should coordinate out efforts. Let us not make hasty decisions! Time is of the essence, aye, but we need a sound plan. Let us call the magicians that are in the city and convene a council. For example, we need you to try and reach other parts of the realm, to warn them before the storm gets there, and then we need to determine how far we can extend the wards over the city here, and then what we can do for the rest of the land, and – and –"

He ran out of steam and took a deep breath. Deïa, who had listened politely, now spoke up.

"Make no mistake, King Orrin. We were ordered to seek the Shur'tugal and obey his command, and only his. We are not free to act at anyone's convenience, not even our own. As I said already, we are to find and protect Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Bjartskular, and that is what we will do."

Her tone was polite as always, but her dark blue eyes fixated Orrin unyieldingly.

"This is not open for debate."

She picked up her bow again.

"Will you be as kind as to spare a guard to show us the way out?"

Nasuada, into whose direction the question had been posed, gathered herself and shook her head.

"Oh no, I shall lead you myself."

She crossed the room to lead them out, however, Orrin placed himself in the way of the door; drawn up high and flushed with anger.

"So that is what Queen Islanzadí considers an alliance? What she considers help?" Orrin shouted. "Leaving their ally in the hour of need? Disappearing, while we risk out lives –! First no help at all, and then, better yet, when _eventually_ she deems it not beneath her to send aid, it turns out to be a hoax? If those are the actions of an ally, it is a most wavering one indeed!"

The group moved for the first time. Not by much; it was as if a small ripple had moved through them. The tension in the room rose to a palpable level. With a quick wave from Deïa, the other elves stilled again. Inhuman blue eyes bored into him like chips of freezing ice.

"You would do well to guard your tongue, human. Twice, I let your misplaced comments about our kind pass, as I attributed it to your ignorance. However, my patience has limits, and you should certainly know better than saying such. Our Queen sacrifices much to help you in your war, and we follow her, even if not all of us agree. The blood of my kin will be spilled for the first time since the Fall in a stand against Galbatorix, and shall be lamented in a thousand years and another thousand years still. It is nothing to speak lightly of."

She was looking up to him, barely reaching his chest, and yet it felt as though he were at _her_ feet. If Orrin was intimidated, however, he hid it behind anger.

His voiced boomed throughout the study.

"Why, so now it's – I shall tell you what this is; an affront bordering on impudence, to –"

"Orrin!" Nasuada bellowed over his voice. "Calm yourself, man, or leave before you finally say something we all will regret!"

Orrin whitened at the rebuke.

"So you agree with them?" he shouted in rage. "Nasuada! Am I the only sane individual left in this room? They leave when we need help, when we are about to fall prey to the darkness! And for what? For what! Ten of the best spellcasters within the next thousand miles, only to find Eragon? It seems the life in a forest has addled their brains! It's preposterous –"

"Orrin! If Eragon is in danger –"

"Yes, yes! Of course _you_ would find that a most troubling concern –"

Elva's gaze had long since moved from Nasuada to Roran, who seemed forgotten by all. Leaning on he far wall, he'd been following the discussion and the argument in silence. He never moved a muscle, but his fingers were clenched and his eyes held a haunted look.

A small smile appeared on her face, knowing and perhaps even a little sinister. But she said nothing, simply slipped away from the quarrelling people in the room, back behind the curtain and into the small bedchamber that had been set up there fore her.

– * –

It was hours later that a shadow silently crept past the rows of tents. Fear was in the air, fear of the unknown, fear of that which they could not understand. Everyone feared what was beyond their comprehension, and oh, for them, how much was!

The wind had turned north after evenfall, presaging disaster, and everyone had been packing and securing things, while soldiers watched over magicians that drew lines in the sandy ground, preventing them from being disturbed in their work. The elves had come and gone, the magicians had finished their task, and now a ward stretched over the city, the troops, and the Varden's encampment, shimmering like a pale purple dome in the starless sky above them.

And against it in the storm outside crashed _things_, pelting the shield and creating a constant buzzing noise, allowing the form to slip unnoticed past the guards, vanishing in the dark gap between two tents that glowed faintly in the light of the magic; with no other sound than a soft rustle of the fabric against the clothes, droned out by the sound of the shield.

The small form re-emerged a few rows further down the field, ducking underneath a canvas flap into one of the tents. A single candle burned with a dancing yellow flame, painting deep shadows onto the face of the sole person inside. The man was sitting at the small table, staring at the flickering light. In it, his face seemed gaunt and haunted.

"You worry for you love, Roran Stronghammer."

He started, but then sunk back into his chair, continuing to watch the candle.

"Yes," he whispered.

After a while, he turned back towards the new arrival.

"Three weeks it's been, three entire weeks since Eragon set forth. He should have returned with her long since … and now this … A perpetual night sprung from the very place he is at. I know a bad omen if I see one." His voice turned bitter. "Elva. Why have you come, child? To taunt me with my worries that already haunt my dreams at night and thoughts at day?"

Elva stepped closer, into the light. Her face, as well, was shrouded with lines and fleeting shadows as the flame moved in the draught. Her eyes seemed to glow in the dark, as her hand reached out, touching his cheek.

"Let me lay to rest your worries to rest, then, and offer you the sanctuary of certainty," she breathed. "You need not doubt any longer. She shan't return to you in this life."

The backside of her hand stroked his cheek once, then receded.

"Poor Roran …"

Roran jumped up, knocking his chair backwards in sudden surprise. Elva slowly sat down on the desk with the candle between them, staring at him unblinkingly over the flame, her violet eyes wide but calm, untroubled by the agitation her words invoked.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "She will, Eragon promised! How would you know any different?"

"I _know_. That part of the curse Eragon _gifted_ me with remained. Fate, Stronghammer … can you not taste it? Twosome, they set out for their journey, and twosome, they shall return. Never was Eragon intended to return with more than one … and for that, your promise was broken the moment he left with the elf as his companion. Because, hence, he will reach a crossroad in Helgrind's belly, forced to make the ultimate choice. And what do you think he will do? Do you believe he would give up his happiness for yours? Don't delude yourself. In that regard, he is still as much human as you are."

She sat still, like a statue in the dark tent, watching the man, it seemed, in curious detachment: sunken to his knees, struggling for breath.

"_Eragon, what have you done?_"

– * –

The cry tore itself from his lips, despair and anguish filling Roran at her dark prophecy. Yet only moments later, he felt only scorn for the girl in front of him, trying to plant the seed of doubt in his heart, and anger at himself for wavering in his steadfast trust for even the shortest of moments, and in rising, he spoke: "What are your words but the scare stories of crones who have seen too many winters. Eragon is my brother. If it is at all possible to save Katrina, he will do it. He promised, so you are mistaken. I doubted him once, but I do no longer; and all your words of gloom and doom will not make me. I do not even see the problem; a strange elf can hardly be more important than my Katrina."

Elva only smiled mockingly.

"Oh dear. You weren't aware? Yes, there are more people in the world with a Katrina … that elf happens to be Shadeslayer's. He seeks to win her, and while he will lose that which he won, the moment he understands what he seeks, that time is not now. And so, your promise is already broken, one way or the other; fate runs its course while we sit back and watch. Only, you are not content to do so, are you, _Bloodhammer_?"

He felt her unnatural violet eyes on him, her knowing gaze, looking through him effortlessly, piercing him to depths hidden to even himself afore, and felt tears spring to his eyes for reasons unknown to him, a dark inkling of terrible things yet to come. But Katrina was not dead, that he thought he felt for certain. And he clung to that thought when Elva's voice drifted over him, soft and enwrapping him like a blanket.

"Hush! don't cry. It had to happen eventually; now was the time: 'twas simply one too many promise made, one too many promise to keep. The bond unravelled, the table broken; the events are set in motion, the last act in this play begins, and _still_, the outcome is shrouded in darkness. Victory? Or downfall?"

Elva laughed happily, and jumped off the table.

"I can't wait to see."

She skipped over to him, and hugged him.

"All this talk made me hungry. I'm _so_ hungry. See you, Roran."

And before he could utter another word, she was gone, leaving him confused and restless; and only the swinging flap bore witness that she had been there at all.

# # #

"It looks like we finally reached the end."

He had no recollection of how many days had past. It was cold, cold in the marrow, and black, always black, no way out, no way to escape. Ever since Murtagh had left, the rocks falling and burying the way out behind him, ever since they moved and _grew_ the exit shut, forming a smooth surface, he had waited for someone to come – called for _her_, in his rare moments of clarity. The rest was only confused and jumbled, nothing more than an endless recollection of pain: the cursed _black_ stone of Helgrind, enveloping him completely, severing his connection to _her_ – not like it was usually, when they were too far apart, she was still there, then, only not reachable, no – it had ripped him from _her_, cut through him like a knife, cleaving his existence in two.

But not longer. It was enough.

Arya whipped her head around. He saw her dimly in the dark of the cave, her eyes flashing in rage. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Not anymore.

"Don't say that! Never give up. Never give in. Not to Galbatorix, not to anyone. You are a Shur'tugal. Act like one!"

Eragon laughed wildly, somewhere between madness and despair. The sound echoed and re-echoed from the rough, stony walls.

"I'm not! _I'm not!_ Not anymore – it's empty … everything's empty, so empty …"

He pressed the hands to his head and moaned, as the words ignited the by now familiar ache, all over again; the terrible feel of the void, gnawing at his mind, the hole in his head and heart, his entire being torn asunder.

He staggered to his feet and wandered through the cave.

"Gone … all gone …what is there? What? I can't … It tears, nagging, gnawing … tears apart – all that is there …"

It was unbearable. He stared hatefully at the _black_ walls, that robbed him of his existence, of his – his soul – a new wave of pain sent him into spasms and he stumbled, falling to the ground and knocking his head against the wall. Oddly enough, that felt … good? It felt different. A slow smile spread over his face. Perhaps if he tried even harder … would it feel even better?

A dull thud sounded through the cave. Something sticky ran down his forehead. And … wasn't there something that wanted out? Yes, there was. Oh, this felt good indeed …

Arya jumped to her feet, picking him by the collar of his tunic and pulling him away from the wall that now held a large patch of crimson, which was slowly vanishing, soaked up by the stone, sponge-like. They tumbled, and roughly, she pushed his back onto the ground, pinning him down with her weight and her hands, making it impossible to move.

Her eyes looked down to him, wide, agitated. _Fearful_.

"Eragon, hear me! Fight it! You have to separate yourself from the bond, else you are going to lose yourself. It cannot happen!"

He moaned.

"It hurts … oh god, it hurts … make it stop. _Make it stop!_"

"You have to, Eragon!"

Her voice held a note of despair. "If … if there ever was something I meant for you, then do it for me. Fight, Eragon …"

His world shrank to a black tunnel, dulling his senses until nothing was left but a faint whisper and the movements of her lips, so full, red, barely an arm's length away; green eyes, alive in the dark with an unseen fire; black hair, after days in the cave long since having come loose, framing her face … red and green and black, what a wonderful world, a dream world, painted by an artist using blood and hope and darkness. A mesmerizing picture …

He felt himself slip away.

_Too little … too late …no more fight in me._

"There is but one thing left I wish to know …"

And he felt his arm pull her towards himself, as if on its own accord, felt his lips on hers, felt her stiffen, but not pull away … And in a final explosion of colours, sounds and tastes, he savoured the kiss that was bound to be the first and the last, the beginning and the end; tried unabashedly to steal what was not his, memorising every nuance – the taste like water from the clearest spring, sweet and ripe elderberries and pine needles, freshly plugged and crushed, lingering even after all this time in captivity – it mixed up to something so very unique and Arya-like, wild and untamed, strong, intoxicating and overwhelming, drowning him; and he surrendered.

He felt his heartbeat sped up, listening to the sound and taste of the fire. The silver flame was calling … and the fire raced through him, burning him, burning away all pain and sorrows in a blaze of beauty.

– * –

Arya was frozen, not really able to comprehend what was happening. She couldn't think, her brain seemed stuck … this … how could he do something like this?

Silently, she begged for him to stop.

His fingers touched her bare back trough the torn fabric of her tunic; her skin burned under his touch … hot, so hot … like trails of fire that burned her skin, through it and deep inside of her. So long since she felt it the last time, and she swore she'd never let herself feel this way ever again and yet here she was … and for one precious moment the heat even managed to drive away the cold she always felt, ever since _he_ died.

She begged for him to never stop.

But then he pulled back and the coldness balled itself anew into an icy knot inside of her, much worse than before. Her eyes flared, and she came out of her stupor and grabbed him, almost throwing him against the rough wall a foot away. Nothing mattered but to feel the warmth again, to feel _alive_ again …_ a cell, somewhere in Gil'ead, bars made of ice-cold sorrow, and walls of blackest despair …_

– * –

Eragon knew this wasn't real. He was drifting, above the pain. She grabbed him with a surprising strength he was barely able to match. He looked into her eyes and almost recoiled from the intensity of her feelings. It was so unlike her normal self, the raw need he saw there, in the glowing green. No holding back, no control, like a caged beast of prey that finally had broken free of its chains.

"Please … keep … keep the cold at bay."

In contrast to that, her voice, sounding so weak, frail almost; and she kissed him back, desperately, hand entangled in his hair. Wandering hands tugged at his robes, pulled them off, roaming over his bare chest; eager hands, on his back, pulling him flush to her; her lips against his, again and again. He felt her breasts against his chest, only separated from his skin by what remained of her flimsy shirt, and his fingers slowly pushed that away as well, leaving behind nothing but his version of heaven, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.

– * –

Her clothes discarded and she didn't even remember taking them off, not that she minded, feeling him against her made the fire surge, spreading the warmth past all and any walls within with only one stray thought disrupting her feelings of contentedness, did she not use him to make herself feel better, to soothe her tortured soul and escape the icy claws, even if it was for but one, short moment?

But any further thought fled her when she felt his lips, on the tips of her breasts, sending tiny shocks all throughout her body, when his hands moved down her back, caressing her skin, and she gave in, felt him next to her, inside her, felt the heat, warming her, Eragon was so very different from him, where he was gentle and still Eragon was passionate, where he sought to slow things down, Eragon sought to sped them up, but it appealed to another side of her, spurring her on, to respond, reaching an almost frantic pace, and yet …

She closed her eyes, and yes, it drifted away, the cave, the cell, the prison, all away; it all vanished and she could pretend, she felt him move steadily, pulled him closer, and suddenly, it was no longer he, brown turned blue, she looked into eyes full of love, framed by long blonde hair. A blissful smile floated over her face, she, her mind, miles away, and a single thought left …

_Fäolin._

* * *

And now comment away :P

Anyway, thanks for all the wonderful reviews on the last part, I was really happy reading them all.

**Saladin:** Thanks for the nice review!

Next chapter: **Consequences**. Progress, as always, in my profile.


	11. Consequences, Part I

**A/N:**

Whoa. Over 200 reviews. Thank you all - for reading and taking the time to write something. It makes me happy :) Answers to few reviews without account at the end of the chapter.

Then, I need to apologise for the state of the story, and the last chapter in particular, even though it wasn't my fault - decided it was time to play with their stupid filters again (no one but them have a clue what they're even goodfor), and that killed all of my scene breaks. Some pointed out that the chapter was confusing ... removing all scene breaks would do that, I imagine. I fixed it, though.

Turning back to this chapter, of course my rule of thumb worked - everything gets twice as long as planned. So here's part 1 of _Consequences_, Arya's POV. Eragon is up next.

Thanks to _JWH_ for betaing, and to _silverlasso_ for helping me with keeping my plotlines under control.

Enjoy!

* * *

**6. Consequences, I**

_Light up, light up_

_As if you have a choice?_

_.~._

_It was autumn when Queen Islanzadí declared the war against Galbatorix and the Forsworn ended._

_Arya stood on a bed of red and golden leaves in the doorway to her rooms, when Kialandí, sole Forsworn of the elvish race, was lead across Tialdarí Hall bound. She watched the elf pass, head held high, strikingly beautiful, with long dark hair and piercing blue eyes; and despite what she had done, despite betraying and slaying her own kin and despising her for it, Arya could not help the smallest twinge of admiration as she never begged for mercy, never claimed innocence; simply sitting there and listening to the accusations, graceful and composed, but never uttering a word in her defense._

_It was only when the Queen uttered the verdict that she showed a reaction, surprising Arya._

_"So you would that I live? You are weak, Islanzadí, and a fool. End my life now, and you shan't regret it, for it is what I deserve. Let me live, and it will be your sorrow. That I swear."_

_"Enough blood of our kin has been spilled. I _will not_ add to it. Neither in waging a war on a land that is no longer ours, nor in ending the life of one of our own."_

_One of the gathered Lords rose and frowned._

_"Surely, you will not deny her to bear punishment? She has the right to atone, as does everyone."_

_The Queen looked at him and he bowed, sitting back down._

_"And atone she shall. Let her be carried away into the forest, bound of most her powers and fettered to a spot, until ever such a time that she would see her mistakes and ask for redemption; and let the dragon share her fate. And when the time has come and she born enough to balance out her deeds, let her call for me and I will be there."_

_And Kialandí rose, a terrible, hard look upon her proud face, meeting the Queen's stare and uttered a single, final word: "Never."_

_For an instant, Arya spotted a fearful look on her mother's face, before she whispered: "Begone. Begone from my eyes, Kialandí. Your presence is no longer wanted."_

_And so it was curiosity that drove Arya ahead, out into the forest, far past the homely rooms of Tialdarí Hall. It was dense, and almost impenetrateable in this part. Silence laid draped over the trees like a stiffling cloth when no animals could be heard, and such was the case now. Only she darted between the branches and brambles, shadow-like, finding a way when there was none; pausing for moments, then starting anew._

_Arya stopped again, crouching, bending away thorny branches and staring onward, where a sudden break in the trees opened up a clearing, on all but one side surrounded by the same tangled thorn bushes, while the last side opened up to the heavens, for they were on the same rocky crags that also housed Oromis' home._

_Keen eyes observed the sole occupant, who did naught but sitting with her back towards Arya leant against a single large tree, which was aflame in autum's colours; herself over and over covered in fallen leaves, a magnificent golden cloak, regal, and melancholic. And just a few paces away from her rested a huge, dark purple dragon, dozing in the shade of the tree; one of the Nameless Ones._

_Suddenly, the elf raised her left hand, and an irresistible force seized her, dragging her through the bushes. She stiffled a scream as the thorns pricked her skin; she flew a few lengths through the air before she was dumped undignified onto the small meadow and dragged her through the grass._

_Next to the tree, the elf had risen. She lowered her hand and the force tearing at Arya stopped, still without a single uttered word on her part._

_Kialandí was tall, the features unchanged from the time when she had passed Arya in Tialdarí Hall; features that still, even here, gave the impression of a proud, perhaps even arrogant demeanour. The blue eyes lowered their piercing gaze on her, then she uttered a derisive laugh._

_"A child? Islanzadí sends a _child_ to attend me? Apparently, mocking me with a view of open skies and refusing me my chance to atone was not quite enough. Islanzadí's cowardly behaviour continues."_

_Arya rose, and stared up the elf haughtily._

_"I am Arya Dröttningu … Kialandí."_

_Kialandí remained silent and regarded her stonily. Arya matched her stare, until she could contain herself no longer, and burst out: "Why? Why did you do it?"_

_Nothing changed in Kialandí's expression, and as the minutes passed, Arya was already certain that she would not answer her at all, just as she had said nothing in front of Mother, when she suddenly spoke._

_"Do you hate, little princess?"_

_"I -"_

_"From the bottom of your heart, wishing with every fiber of your being that someone or something would not be, and knowing that you would do anything to see it made so?"_

_Her first impulse was to say no. She opened her mouth, but no words would come. The Ancient Language would not allow her to deny what her heart knew to be true, from the moment she had seen Father die. She … she _hated_ Galbatorix. She had never, until now, consciously admitted it, but as she did now, she knew it was the case._

_She would that he never existed. She wished there was some way to take away from him something that meant to him just as much as Father had meant to her. And if it was but his own life, in exchange for Father's. The feeling seized her while Kialandí stared at her, a curious, enigmatic smile on her face, and it was as if a dark shadow descended over Arya's heart. She stared at the Forsworn in dawning horror, and darted around and fled._

"Deïa."

The nine elves, standing just a few paces in front of her on the dark heath in one, straight row, perfectly still, lowered as one their heads and hands, which had been raised to the heavens as in a silent prayer. They said not a word, and the air was quiet but for the soft rustle of their silvery cloaks. Arya felt the magic dissipate, which had safely guided her through the air, the many thousand feet from the entry of the cave at Helgrind's top down to earth.

She was thirsty, exhausted, physically and mentally, worn down from the events, and forced herself to stand tall and strong. She would not show a sign of weakness in front of other elves, least of all _her_.

Her, here, of all people, but she knew she should have been expecting her. Islanzadí wouldn't trust anyone in her stead, no one, not even her daughter.

Deïa was the sole exception. The petite elf whose name had slipped by Arya's lips the moment she had seen her was kneeling down beside the second body, which was lying unresponsive on the heath in Helgrind's shadow; her long, fair hair falling past her face and obscuring it.

"Eragon …"

A rush of memories. Unbidden, tearing at her mind; of the hours and days past, when she held him close, when for a moment she had thought …

_He was not Fäolin._ She clung to that thought and realised she was shaking, and clenched her fists until the nails bit in the flesh of her palms. Not now. _Please._ Not now, she couldn't deal. Didn't want to deal. And she did as she always did, forcing the memories away, away, to the rest of them, only away.

Kálin, Svitya and Lidian stood still next to her. They were the ones who found them – her.

Her, bent over Eragon, measuring time in his heartbeats as she kept him alive, beat after beat, when he could no longer do it himself; her world faded away in a haze of exhaustion, exclusively encompassing the last dying rider, focussed solely on keeping the heart beating and hoping it would be enough … and later not even hoping anymore, just staring blankly into space while refusing to let him die.

Until an eternity later, the cave had exploded, showering her with a hail of chips of rocks and revealing the three elves standing there; and had she been not as exhausted, she might have wept in relief. As it was, she could only stare numbly at their rescuers, her thoughts slow and confused. She remembered drinking something, soaring through the air, always on the brink of losing consciousness, experiencing the flight as in dreams.

Finally, the elf turned away from Eragon, looked at her with her clear blue eyes and bowed.

"Princess. I am overjoyed to see you alive."

Arya's answer came out bitingly.

"I am certain."

At other times, she might have made an effort to hide her aversion, but she couldn't muster the will to care now. _And not with her_, said a little voice, and she did not even attempt to contradict it, even if she was not looking for a fight.

Deïa's eyes narrowed.

"You have not changed at all, child. Mind your manners."

"There is no one here for whom you would need to keep up your precious appearance, Deïa."

Arya heard her own words as a third person, an onlooker watching herself in apathy. She was too tired to care. So perhaps she was looking for a fight.

But the other elf only looked at her coldly.

"You always mistook basic courtesy for a need of appearance."

"Just as you were always substituting station with importance."

Deïa gave her another particularly unfriendly look

"Well, if you are well enough to be your usual insolent self, surely you are ready to talk about what foolishness you did now." She pointed down. "He is hours away from dying. Explain yourself. Explain to me, why on Alagaësia's green soil, I find the last free Dragon Rider and hailed hope for our victory in the very centre of the darkness that covers the land, nearly dead, and without his dragon. _Arya._"

Deïa's words cut into a surprisingly intimate part of her. _Does he mean that much to me?_

"We – we set out to kill the Ra'zac and free a hostage. You knew that." Arya felt her anger rising. If Deïa thought she could chastise her, she was wrong. "Your question is without sense. I did my best to keep him alive."

The look on Deïa's face darkened.

"Your task was not to keep him alive, but out of harm. You know what your mother told you. And then you chose to do the very opposite of what she asked, risking his life instead of protecting it. _He_ doesn't know any better. He is but an infant. You, however, should. Your mother asked this one thing of you, and not even that you deemed necessary to grant. Will you ever cease being rebellious and disagreeable, Arya? Your selfishness has brought us more grief that any event since Evandar's death. Now you added quite possibly another life to the tally, and more – the fate of our race. Every one elf would see this alone as sufficient punishment, but not you. You bore more than that, more than any elf in recent history, and still, it seems it has not been enough. When will it be enough, Arya? When?"

She felt her anger flare, clenching her fists.

"Not enough? Not enough, Deïa? Islanzadí banned me from my home in disgrace for seventy years, for only I chose to disagree –"

"And she accepted you back, did she not? Despite it all, she forgave and apologised, welcomed you upon your return, forever holding out hope you would have come to see your errors. I have not her optimism. She is too soft. Were it my decision … For all the grief and sorrow you brought over Islanzadí and all of us, your name would be stricken from the royal line, and never uttered again within the realm that is walked by elves. For all I understand you might even welcome that. Yes, child, were you mine, you would be free to do whatever your selfish little heart desired – as long as it was far, far away."

Arya had only a bitter smile for the older elf. She would never see what Arya did.

"But I am not, am I? Not your child, not your token of Father's love. Much to your consternation, since you so dearly would Mother's place."

Deïa stiffened. Her blue eyes only barely hid the loathing, Arya thought.

"I serve my Queen in utmost loyalty. Are you questioning my dedication?"

Arya curled her lips into a fine smile. "Did it come across that way? I am sorry if you got that impression, Deïa."

The other elf stood rigidly, a tense look on her face, before she suddenly, became impassive once more.

"This is not the time, nor the place."

She turned away, looking into the darkness, and as if that had been a cue, Arya saw a shadow appearing. With thundering hooves, a stallion appeared out of the night, at full gallop, crossing the remaining distance at a wondrous pace. It was larger and finer than any human steeds, clear signs that marked it as elfish of breed.

"Snevhid," Deïa called, smiling as it came to a halt next to her, with lightly trembling flanks. "You came. You heard my plea upon our leaving, and came, all the way across Alagaësia. Elruna eka ono wiol inkoma onr." _I thank you for coming._

The snow white horse nickered softly and brushed its moist nose against her side, while she petted his head. Turning back to Arya, she called: "You will –"

But Arya ignored it, brushing past her, bending over Eragon. _He looked so pale_, she thought. To Deïa, she then said: "Now let me take Eragon and the horse, Deïa; I will carry him to the bogs of Logsvara. The ambient magic and the spirits will aid his recovery; it is the only chance we have. No magic of our own can heal a wound in his mind stemming from the loss of a dragon. We need to hurry."

Deïa spun around.

"It is not certain that he will recover at all! And you can never be certain of where the spirits are, and what they will grant."

"Do you propose a better plan, then?"

Deïa stared at her, before she briskly walked towards them.

"I am the better rider. That much even you should be able to admit. I will take him, and hope against hope that he still can be saved."

Arya made to bend over his prone form, when Deïa grabbed her arm, preventing her from reaching out to him.

"You have done enough harm for the time being."

Suddenly, she flinched and let go of Arya's arm, almost stumbling backwards. Arya looked up; staring into Deïa's wide eyes. Horror dawned on the older elf's face. Arya frowned.

"What –"

"You did it again, did you not?"

When Arya gave no answer, she all but grabbed her at her cloak, looking at her, highly agitated.

"Answer me! Did you use the false magic?"

Arya gave the tiniest twitch as the memory of the Lethrblaka resurged, the darkness, the black hate, drawn up and fortified by the magic, until it filled her entirely, took hold of her, _was_ her … and the worst part that always came after, the moment when the spell was done and she left alone to drown in her most painful memories, those that she had dragged to the forefront of her mind, in order to weave the magic. And it wasn't yet over.

It was enough for Deïa to notice.

"You irresponsible, foolish _child_!" Her crystal blue sparked in fury. "Are three thousand years enough for you to think in all your juvenile arrogance that it will not matter anymore? That somehow, for you the rules of magic do not exist – that you are above and beyond such mere trivialities? Have you forgotten the last time so soon? What else needs to happen to make you _see_?"

Arya's voice was cold when she responded.

"I would be dead otherwise."

"As if that would make it better, somehow," cried Deïa. "In that case, it is the height of foolishness to manoeuvre yourself into a position that would leave you that as the only way out! Islanzadí will hear of this, make no mistake."

"Did Mother send you, Deïa?"

"Nay, she did not, since we could not break through your spells, and even I held you not as thoughtlessly irresponsible as to journey right across the enemy territory, and into the heart of darkness itself."

Triumph surged through Arya at the first part of Deïa's sentence, and she made no effort to hide it. _So it had worked. I bested them all – I bested _her_._

"Then I need not explain myself to you, Deïa. Remember your place."

She reeled back as if struck, and Arya noticed it with vindictive satisfaction. She could only guess what the elf would have liked to say to her – a small part of her almost wished she would speak up against her. Both stood opposing each other, stares matched, for a terrible second when it almost seemed as if Deïa was on the verge of saying something, and Arya _dared_ her to, but then the elf only bowed.

"I will take him to Aroughs, then, as you command. By your leave, _Princess_?"

Arya's eyes flickered from her to Eragon. He was still lying there as if dead, but she knew he was still alive. It couldn't be too late. He needed to live.

"Take him," she said. "I will assume your position amongst Mother's elves and lead them back to Surda."

Again, Deïa appeared on the verge objecting, but one stare by Arya made her acquiesce.

"Contact your mother," was all she said, before she leapt onto the white horse, Eragon in front of her, and galloped away, on a route slightly west to the south, a race against time.

_Hold on, Eragon. Just a tiny while longer. Hold on._

– * –

They moved through night in silent run; twelve shadows, ghostly figures in the dark. No one talked to her; her companions had been around her before and knew not to bother her. And so she was alone with her thoughts, in perfect quiet but for the steady rhythm of feet hitting the ground; lulling her into an almost trance-like state. They flew across the dark countryside swift as the wind, in a monotonous_ left-right-left-right_, each step an impact that was absorbed by her body. The movement dominated everything, her breathing, the beat of her heart; and it cleared her mind and made her think of mundane things, and finally of nothing at all.

It was more difficult when they stopped for a break.

She had pushed on and on for that very reason, ignoring the concerned looks her companions gave each other and herself. Instead, she would strike up an even faster pace. They might have covered as much as five leagues in the last hour, and still it seemed not fast enough for her. She would run, trying to leave it all behind, trying to escape, trying, always and forever trying … as long as she did not stop, it would not haunt her … could she not run on forever?

Elves surpassed any human in strength and endurance. They were quicker and stronger, could run faster and longer, yet even so, they were not without limits. Oh, how well she knew this.

_If only I was as invincible as humans thought us_, she thought bitterly.

So it was that they moved through the night, under their feet the barren landscape of Mírnathor giving way to moss and reeds and small holts as they neared the four hills rising up from the plain, surrounding the rocky rise called Ithindra's Tor in their centre; and so it was that eventually, her excessively taxed body would obey her no longer. Days without sleep and without sustenance, artificially extended by Faelnirv again and again, finally took their toll.

A searing pain tore through her body as her muscles seized up, and she just barely caught herself to prevent tumbling down and hitting the ground painfully; a raised hand being all sign she gave to bid them to stop for a rest, before she deserted her companions, vanishing under the trees, away, only away.

She stumbled into the arboreous foot of the hill; the ruin of Edur Ithindra towering up above her forbiddingly. She tripped over a root in the thick undergrowth, crashed down, crawled on, then picked herself up again. The branches tore at her tunic and hit her face, but she barely noticed; she stumbled ahead, the perpetual darkness blurring in front of her eyes, showing strange, swaying images of things she did not understand. And suddenly, there were strong arms, supporting her, and the control over her limbs slipped from her will, and she collapsed, and he carried her –

No – hadn't that already happened? Something caught her ankle, and she tripped again and did not get up anymore. Her cheek rested in the dirt and she stared into the weeds unfocusedly, breathing erratically.

It was dark and she heard her name called.

"Who – who is there?" she asked, and the night was silent.

_Arya …_

_She struggled to lift her head and failed. A hand gently brushed over her face, and a wonderfully cool liquid moistened her lips. She swallowed and it hurt, but almost instantly she felt better. Still exhausted like she hadn't been in a long time, but not half-dead anymore, just tired. So tired …_

_He cared about her so touchingly. And for a while she allowed herself to be held by him, sitting under Saphira's wing, warm and cosy, an odd comfort, reminding her of summers gone by, when everything had been better, the sky without clouds and the air void of any winds carrying the sounds of war …_

But she didn't deserve it.

Not her. Not when she was the one who had thrown the care back into _his_ face, sacrificed _him_ in the line of her duty –

_So unassuming. So kind. So earnest. A true friend, and despite all that she had done, despite all her failings, all she saw in his eyes was understanding even though he could not understand, and compassion even though he knew not what for, and it broke her._

_It burst out of her, the sum of all her guilt and self-loathing. _

I'm not!

_Not alright, not fine, not worth your compassion, not one of the good, not _perfect _– she wanted to scream, could no one see all her failings?_

_He_ had. _He_ had been there when no one else had, _he_ had stood by her, and she had repaid it with death …

She clenched her fingers, vaguely realising she was lying on the cold, rocky ground, stones painfully digging into her side, far from either Helgrind or Osilon. No one was here.

She struggled to keep the memories at bay, desperately, fearing what she knew would come next, and it was like holding off a dammed-up lake with her bare hands – a _damned_ lake …

No one used that particular kind of magic lightly.

_Beware what you do child, no magic comes for free even if it might appear so upon first glance …_

It was time to pay the price. She had withstood it earlier, resisting it, ultimately in vain. The storm of memories descended on her, called upon to fuel the magic, wanted then, and oh, how unwanted now. She struggled silently to keep up the walls around her mind, and suppressed a sob when it was just _useless –_

_Why do you struggle, elf? No one will come. No one cares. You are alone. _

_Durza's damned voice, in her ears, in her mind._

_And the only thing that gave her strength to keep going was what led her into this cell; her foolish, stubborn pride, that had neither allowed her to forgive Mother, nor would it allow her to give up the secrets he wanted to know now._

She cried out in pain as he tore through her mind, he was so _strong_. She receded further and further into her mind, desperately trying to protect the secrets of the Varden and the elves as the innermost core of her being, giving up anything else in exchange.

What she was. What she thought. Her hopes, her dreams, her fears; what she loved, what she hated. Durza had seen it all.

Like the most perfect fairth, it was all laid out for him. In the course of long, long months he came to know like no one else had; and gloated over her troubles.

_They have cast you out. There was only _him_ that stood by you …_

_She writhed in pain as used his tools and her own fears and darkest memories in equal measure to torture her, her screams that she tried to suppress filling the room until her voice was hoarse._

And in the end, you killed _him_ too …

_The wood was silent, too silent. Her steed reared up and she spun around, hair whipping into her face, but it was already too late. The red light struck her trusty mount, and it died instantly. Arrows hissed trough the night – _

_Fäolin! It's an –_

_The pain lanced through her, and it was not her pain. And suddenly, he was falling, arrows in his back … falling, falling down. It was his pain she felt, his pain searing her back… she cried out in anguish. Fäolin. She felt him in her mind, deadly wounded … no. _Please._ Not him._

You killed him. It was your choice. You could have left the egg, and saved his life …

No! He's still alive, she screamed, he had to – hadn't she just found him, in a dark cave? He was alive, and warmed her – drove off of the cold emptiness that filled her and _was_ her –

She struggled to lift a hand up, fingers stretching to touch his face –

_He is dead._

– and encountered only coldness. The idea drilled itself like shards of ice through her heart.

… _Fäolin_ …

_Durza brought her to the brink of death and back again … for the hundredth time or more, she could not say. It was time for the drug again. She awaited it eagerly, restlessly, she needed it – escape from the pain and the sorrow, from her nightmarish waking dreams, if only for a moment … she could fly away …_

She was trying desperately to cling to her sanity, but it had been broken into many tiny pieces, just like her, and simply slipped through her fingers. There was nothing left to fix, a heart missing, a soul in shambles.

_Not every broken thing could be fixed, not everyone could be saved. Magic was not all-powerful. And there were situations in which death was more merciful._

He was looking at her, his face deathly pale, his light blue eyes full of reproach and disappointment.

He was dead, and it was her fault.

_Her eyes flickered back and forth. She wanted to run to him, save him, she knew she could … she took a step towards him. She could help. She had to – she … the Urgals were closing in._

But – the egg …

_You picked your duty over his love._

She pressed her fingers into the inside of her hands until her nails broke through the skin, creating stinging crescent marks in her palms, anything to keep at bay the tears that threatened to fall.

"I promised! There was nothing I could do!"

_She took the egg_…

… and the light fled his eyes.

A sob escaped her. It hadn't been him, in the cave. No, never him. Above, heaven opened the gates and rain started to fall down to earth.

_You killed him, and now you betrayed him._

She felt the tears on her cheek, mingling with the rain, running down her face.

"I'm sorry, Fäolin."

She cried it, over and over again.

"I promised! _I promised!_"

The rain crashed down on her, cold darts of ice pricking her skin, but she hardly felt it, because nothing could compare to the icy ball in her chest, where once a heart had been.

_I'm sorry …_

She laid on the wet ground, shivering, helpless under the onslaught of memories having come lose from the tight rein she kept on them, shoved into the farthest corner of her mind and sealed off with all her might.

Too much pain, too much desperation, _too much_. The darkest hours, a reflection of her broken state, figments of a mind that was slowly staring to lose the struggle against the darkness.

_She had failed, and Ellesméra burned. Hordes of Urgals were rampaging through the city, ravaging it. Flames licked on the ancient trees, devoured the lovely gardens of her childhood, the beautiful homes, the halls and ways._

_She had lost the struggle with her own dark side and burned down Ellesméra herself … in vicious revenge for all it had done to her, for what it had made her, the only defining thing left the hatred, for the elves that cast her out, for the world, for herself; it had swallowed her up, devoured her, finally …_

She curled up on the cold ground, hugging herself, shivering violently, soaking wet, her thoughts a jumbled mess of painful memories, terrible visions, fears and dark desires.

"Arya!"

She blinked, trying to clear her gaze. She made out a blurry shape standing over her on a rotting log, looking at her in concern. The storm in her mind abated a little, and shouts finally registered in her ears. Clashing swords, the sure sign of fighting.

Lidian jumped down to her as a stray arrow hissed over his head, imbedding itself in the trunk of a birch a few paces away.

She stared up at him, wide-eyed, trembling, uncomprehending.

"Arya …"

He opened his mouth as if to say something else, then shook his head and the concern vanished from his face, as if someone wiped clear a fairth.

"You are needed. A company of soldiers, at least a half hundred." He threw her a bottle, pulling her up.

"Come."

He pushed her ahead, almost dragging her through the trees when she stumbled and her legs threatened to give out under her. He pulled her sword out of her sheath and pressed it into her shaking hands, giving her a last, merciless shove into the direction of a soldier.

"Fight."

She felt the Faelnirv surge through her and felt herself slipping into a battle mindset, went through the motions of sword fighting, practiced a thousand times, the exercise deeply ingrained, something familiar in all this madness, and she clung to it desperately.

The soldier became more than just a faceless adversary; he suddenly turned into her fears, her doubts, her pain; and in a sudden furore, she attacked it savagely.

_Why are you running from yourself, child?_

Through the rain, she stormed ahead, all her anger and fear projected onto the enemy that she could fight, screaming as she wielded the sword in an arc, swishing it through the air, cutting off an arm when he could not move out of the way fast enough, then pierced his heart.

The soldier gurgled weakly, and she pushed him down with her foot, engaging the next two that came running. She hacked away at them, with no regard for technique and style at all, simply destroying things in the most primitive way possible. They were crippled, cut open, beheaded; overwhelmed by strength and fury that no man could possibly match; and she lost herself in fighting.

Suddenly, she stopped in mid-movement, breathing hard. Rain was running down her hair and her face, wonderfully cool and soothing on her skin; removing the last traces of tears. The sword still raised, she looked around. Around her, seven soldiers laid dead in the grass. For a moment, she did nothing, until a drop of red fell from the wetly shining blade. Very slowly, she lowered the sword, bent down, minutely wiping it on the rain-wet grass. Her motions were short and precise. Gone were the memories, her mind cleared, running again with cold efficiency.

The war was her bane and her cure.

Fifty paces away, she saw Kálin fighting two soldiers at once, and threatened to become overwhelmed as a third and fourth joined them. He used magic to defend himself, no weapons, as did the other elves. They all were spellweavers, not swordsmen; not even used to fights. She was the exception.

She leapt over the bodies, gathering her own magic and in a sweeping throw tossed forth balls of green fire, sizzling in the rain and lighting up the night for just an instant as they carved a burning arch into the air, guided by nothing but her will to seek the targets she bid them to.

The spheres reached the group a second before herself, striking one of the soldiers in the chest, throwing him backwards, into his companions that came running. He screamed as he vanished in a column of fire for an instant, his uniform caught alight and burning his flesh; his arms flailing wildly, preventing anyone from helping him and sowing confusion amongst the other two.

Then she reached the group, using the momentum to strike down the last soldier, evading his clumsy attack and smiting off his head afterwards; thus freeing Kálin from his predicament. From the corner of her eye she spotted more soldiers running towards them, and placed her feet a pace apart, gaining a secure footing on the trampled, slippery ground, awaiting their attack.

They all converged on her, and she cut through the ranks of the soldiers like an avenging angel, beautiful and deadly. Her elfin blade flashed silver through the night in magical light's shine, wielded in flowing movements of perfect grace that belied their deadly nature.

Within minutes, what had been a fivefold superiority had been reduced to an equal fight, though it was only so in numbers alone. Her companions had finally gathered themselves in a group and started preparing to fell the remaining soldiers in a single attack. She pushed the band of enemies back, into a single group, away from the other elves. Two guessed her intentions and tried to flee. She broke their legs and they, too, ended up in the group of soldiers surrounding her.

Then there was a bright flash of light, and around her the last twelve fell down, dead.

– * –

Silence finally descended over the battlefield, that yet only hosted a round dozen survivors, none of them men.

Arya stared at the bodies that littered the ground around her. Blood was slowly being washed away by the still evenly falling rain that softly rustled the treetops on the hillside. So many dead … a dozen right here, all died at once due to the spell her companions had woven; four times as much further away, lining the edge of the woods.

They would not be able to hide them all.

She shook her head and turned towards Svitya, who was nearest to her.

"What happened?"

"It was a convoy."

The female elf with the short, dark hair stared thoughtfully at the ring of dead soldiers, sporting no visible injury. "Mere bad luck. They stumbled right over us when we started to make camp. Their encampment is further up the hill."

"They are resting on the hillside," Kálin spat. "They used Ithindra's tower as a place to leave their waste. It is the behaviour of animals. They live in ignorance, heedless of its millenarian history, defiling it with their filth."

Arya's look went up the hill on whose foot they stood, making out the dark shades of a ring of trees that topped the central hill like a crown, and the slender tower Elyalinn had build for her love, millennia ago, now nothing more than a ruin, rising up into sky like an admonishing finger.

"We need to make certain there are no further soldiers in the camp."

"There are none," Lidian replied, appearing to her right, out of the shadow of the bushes. "I looked. All men joined the soldiers down here, attracted by the noise. One of them had the foresight to sound an alarm."

Arya drew her eyebrows together in displeasure.

"Did they send out messengers, then?"

"Possible."

She pressed her lips together, weighing their options.

"Show me."

Lidian led her over the remnants of the road that once upon a time led towards the tower. Wet grass rustled softly under their light steps, springing up between the once seamlessly joined cobble stones, now broken; overgrown by shrubs that long since had started to claim back what had been wrest from them by magic and craftsmanship. Fragments of history, of a time long gone, when no men had walked Alagaësia's ground; an age, now faded into the sighing whispers of the oldest trees, and faint dreams of former glory and might, conserved in stone, resting here as in deep sleep.

_For each thing has its time._

Her hand touched something that might have been a milestone, once upon a time. Another thousand years, and perhaps everything would be gone.

They climbed the hill in silence, Lidian next to her, dwelling on his own thoughts, just like herself; and she was content to let him be and simply listen to the drips of water on the leaves, not in the mood to talk for longer than was necessary.

After a few minutes, a light gleamed through the dark foliage. The camp was set up by the wayside, just below the tower; with a fire still flickering in the centre of the perimeter, which was formed by the half-circle of the wagons that were like ramparts where the soldiers had gathered to spite the lasting night. They had indeed surprised an armed convoy, transporting merchant goods or supplies, most likely from Dras Leona to Melian, Arya thought.

She pulled aside a few of the sodden canvas covers, spotting cloth and finished garments, meat, a wagon full of barrels marked for the Empire's army at Melian. She left everything as it was; they had no need for any of their possessions. To her right, an ox snorted softly. She stretched out her hand and the animal sniffed it, and allowed her to pet his bulky head.

"Unyoke them," she called. "They should roam free; harnessed, they cannot move and will starve."

The oxen fidgeted, their ears pricked up, as if they understood what she had said. Under her nimble fingers, the straps around the horns fell away, and the ox slipped out from under the wooden yoke. It bumped its head into her side again, licking her fingers, then moved over to a grassy patch and started to graze.

Arya moved on to the next wagon, the only one that remained for her inspection. It was the largest one, with a sturdy structure; made entirely of wood instead of a tarpaulin-covered frame. Here, she found what she had been looking for.

In a hidden space behind a partition wall, she beheld a wooden chest. Metal fittings kept it locked from all too greedy soldiers' hands, but it was no match for her magic She leapt back out of the wagon, and sat down by the fire.

The chest was made of wood from the Yabani-tree, a rare tree that grew at the edge of the Beor Mountains. Its heartwood was exceptionally sturdy and durable. Only the King would commission such valuable item.

Inside, it was filled with bright coins, money to defray the soldiers' pay; and paper, folded parchment. Her fingers pulled the sheets apart and slid smoothly down the list bearing the King's seal, counting names, calculating numbers.

From behind, Lidian joined Arya, looking at her curiously.

"The Empire always needs to keep track of numbers and ranks, because it has to pay their servants," she said absentmindedly. "With any unit is an envoy of the king, whose sole function is to administer and oversee the pay."

After another moment, she placed the parchment in the chest and snapped the lid back shut.

"Sixty. An entire company, indeed."

She rose, brushing off wet leaves from her cloak.

"I think I counted fifty and eight men below."

Lidian looked at her with a hint of worry. "A pair of messengers?"

"Most likely."

She locked the chest carefully and lifted it off the ground, regarding the other elf when he still looked apprehensive.

"There is nothing to be done about it now, Lidian. We will take this with us. If there is any chance at covering up the nature of their assailants, we will have to remove the men you killed, and steal something; and that is all we can do. I have no need for the coins, but Nasuada will; and the correspondence is valuable information."

Lidian bowed his head.

"As you say."

She doused the fire, and night descended over the deserted camp. She spared it a last glance, and together, they vanished in the shrubs.

– * –

Their own camp was not more than a simple glade, with beds from grass and a roof of knotted branches from the ancient oaks, and Arya could have thought of no better place.

They had left the site of the ambush as the rain abated slowly, and found this place on the summit of the hill, directly in front of Ithindra's Tower. The structure was a dark shadow to her right, thick at the base like the trunk of a tree, rising thirty feet into the sky where it ended in a jagged line of broken stones, the missing upper half of it lying all around the glade, shattered into stony fragments, covered in moss and ivy, overgrown and crumbled under the ravages of time.

Ithindra had lived here almost three millennia ago, before the Blood Oath was sworn, before he became mad and tried to undo it and vanished; and now they were here, filling it with elfin life once more even if it was but for a night.

She rested a little apart from the rest of the group, where Lidian and Kálin were stuck in a discussion. She saw Lidian shaking his head, then he walked away and joined her, leaning against the trunk of the oaktree under which she sat.

"Arya."

She nodded at him, and he sat down; and for a while, he said nothing and both were silent, but she knew he had something on his mind.

"You are not alright."

Eventually, he broke the silence. Would it have been anyone but him, she would have informed them to mind their own business. Lidian, though, had been a friend of Father, and she had known him for as long as she could think. Him, at least, she owed an answer, yet what to say? She did not know, and stared ahead at the ancient stones.

"I will be," she finally said. "I made a mistake. Will you blame me?"

"We all make mistakes," he said. And then he rose and left. And far from being offended, she gazed after him fondly, was grateful for his unassuming nature, when nothing he could say would matter to her, and just like the time when he dragged her to fight, it was testament to how long they had known each other that he knew this.

It was her trouble, and hers alone, and he respected it.

For what seemed the millionth time, she examined that fateful night of the ambush. She had gone over it, again and again, always coming to the same conclusion, the one she knew she would reach now.

It had been the right decision.

Ultimately she had failed, but only herself. Once more, Galbatorix had managed to steal away the one person that meant the world to her, but for her people, it had been a victory. The egg had hatched.

And so, saving the egg, not Fäolin, had been the right choice. And she knew that would she have had the chance to do it all over again, she would pick the egg once more, despite the piercing stab of pain, which at that thought tore through places she had assumed had already gone numb long since; and she hated the moments of weakness when the rest of her being would not obey the conclusion of reason and allowed guilt, or indeed, any feelings, to worm their way into her thoughts on the matter.

What she felt was not important. She had dedicated her life to the greater good of her kin, had given up many aspects most elves thought quintessential to their life, be it arts, studies or any other pastimes, and chosen the lonely path of the Yawë in War instead, for that was what her people needed: warriors, to defend their home, not princesses that would be able to write poems, and entertain fancies for long-winded elfin politics.

And she had done it gladly, and bore the mark, as well as the scars on her body and her soul proudly. Mother never had understood that.

Fäolin, however, had. And so she knew he would have approved. His death had not been meaningless.

It was different with Eragon.

He needed to live. She couldn't have failed. Not here … not again. She wasn't sure what she would do if he died. Wasn't everything lost without him?

And then she remembered that Saphira was gone and clenched her fists in helpless anger. She hated the King. Oh, how she despised and hated the cursed King. Galbatorix had completely outwitted them, using plans within plans and his hundreds of years worth of experience, and it had worked almost perfectly. The Varden and their allies had suffered a harsh blow. At this time, it looked fatal, even.

She pulled herself together. She would go down fighting. There was no other way, and sometimes she felt like she knew her fate. She didn't mind, not as long as it meant their victory over Galbatorix. It was the only thing that kept her here.

She contemplated telling Islanzadí's elves to continue to Surda, while she turned towards Urû'baen and tried to assassinate Galbatorix. If he became incautious and overconfident, allowing her to engage him in a magical duel, she could kill him while he killed her.

She shook her head and pushed away that thought. Too much relied on chances and guesswork for that plan to be successful. They needed to draw Galbatorix out of his citadel. He would be more vulnerable in the battlefield. The time for her to attack hadn't yet come.

And try as she might, she could not quell the irrational hope that somehow, Saphira would return and they be able to continue with their original campaign, with Eragon and Saphira as the pivotal figures at their side.

And while around her, the elves eventually settled into their trance-like state of rest, she remained awake for a long while after, staring into the dark sky and listening to sighing oaks telling their stories; and her own thoughts became more and more focussed on the young Rider, as she examined their complicated relationship and the events leading up to the incident in that dark, black cave; the one thing she had tried to push out of her mind as far as she could.

_Oh, Eragon_, she thought sadly. _Why did you have cross that line – what could you possibly hope to gain?_

She knew the answer to that, of course; he had hoped nothing, and expected to die. She wasn't angry with him, even though by rights, she should have been furious. He had broken every rule, every ounce of trust their friendship had build between them. It was unforgivable – except that he had been out of his mind. _And I in all but the same state_, she added to herself. She didn't want to think about the fact that she had not _wanted_ him to stop, right then, about her thoughts at the time, flashes of Fäolin –

_I should have been able to gently, but firmly deter him from his undertaking and instead urged him on. I should have been his voice of reason, but I failed. _This acceptance of Deïa's words, even if it but was in a different way than the elf had intended, tasted bitter in her mouth.

Yet all the same, despite that she could and would not blame Eragon, the time in the cave remained there, like a dark shadow looming over them, and she knew things could not ever again be as they had been before that time. She had not been strong enough to make it so, to prevent from happening what now stood between them. The cave marked a fork in the road, and demanded a decision. Not so much because of her, even, she would try to carry on, happy to pretend nothing had happened, but he would not be able to. It was clear, now, that his feelings ran deeper than she ever had feared.

And so, there were only two ways, and the one that would not push them apart was the one direction into which she was neither willing nor able to go. Days spent travelling in companionship and warm summer, a night under Saphira's wing bringing back feelings, long forgotten, of secureness and safety … all that would be forever treasured, but it was just another chapter of her life, and it was now closed.

No, neither of them could continue on the path they had been on. It had irrevocably ended and culminated in the dark of Helgrind, when his love saved her life for the last time, when he paid for it with his own sanity, and hurled both of them into the abyss of the point of no return with the force of a wild dragon.

And in the end, the cave in truth had been but the final event helping her in her realisation that she could not continue to walk this path – that she did not want to; and that if she was not allowed to hold on time and stop walking altogether, she would have to turn around and walk away, for more than personal reasons.

She shivered as she remembered the wood just hours ago. She hadn't drowned that deeply in darkness since her stay in Gil'ead. Deïa couldn't have been more wrong when she accused her of ignorance. Arya knew well her price for invoking the forbidden magic. She paid it, every time she used it, every second she lived and breathed and felt the darkness within her, ugly and tainting. The breakdown was part of it, it always came, sooner or later, but come it did; the same darkness that enabled her to wield the magic turning on its master, breaking free and wrecking her mind.

It was bad enough on most occasions, but this time, it had been worse, much worse. And in a way, that was Eragon's doing, even if he, again, was hardly to blame. It was to his misfortune that it never was a matter of blame, but of choices leading to consequences, and consequences of such a kind that she could not ignore the choices that brought them about.

Her usage of false magic, as Deïa had called it, whenever she had need for a last resort, had worked, in a precarious balance, for as long as she kept a tight rein on her emotions, her iron discipline over her mind playing to her advantage, as it dampened emotions in either direction she knew she could not handle.

With Eragon though … the young rider had stumbled into her life, bright-eyed and curious, like a little dragon hatchling, and she saw a kindred spirit; someone in search for a place in a world that had taken away the old home, and offered no easy and obvious new one.

In him, she had found someone that was just as lonely as she was, for other reasons and in other ways, but lonely all the same. She had lowered the walls she had erected between her and the world, for him, and yes, she admitted, been happier than she had in a long time. From the moment he had stopped seeing her as something she was not, he had become a constant in her life. The friendship they had struck up was precious to her like few things were.

But all the same, this was the reason she had to struggle through times as in the brushes at Ithindra's Tor, and dear to her as Eragon was, her own emotional balance counted her for more. She had lost the ability to control herself around him, her lowered guard whenever they were together making it possible for her in the first place to lose herself when the circumstances turned dire and plunge herself into a state of emotional turmoil that finally allowed the magic to wreck her mind.

And it was exactly that emotional turmoil she neither wanted nor could afford. It was pivotal that her mind was clear, at all times; she needed, she _wanted_ to be in control of herself, for all of their sakes. She shivered again as she thought of Ellesméra in flames.

For a long while, she sat in the darkness, wondering what would happen now. Her fingers picked up two pieces of stone, fragments from the fallen tower, absentmindedly; while she sat there, looking out into the dark night, and yet seeing but her own past, recent and not. She thought of Eragon and Saphira's companionship, of days spent flying under the smiling sun, moments when it almost seemed there was no war and she had not a care in the world.

She traced the edges of the rocks. They were long since blunted from the elements, no longer sharp and jagged, but still there … she pushed them together, and they fit, like two pieces of a puzzle.

She thought of the underbrushes. Of the cave. Of her fight against the soldier in the village of Rak.

Her fingers opened, and the fitting pieces fell back down, still broken, still separated, because there was nothing to hold them together.

No, if this was the price for a few happy moments, it wasn't acceptable. She wasn't looking to fix herself. She knew she was broken and did not care, not as long as she could fight. It had been that way since her imprisonment in Gil'ead, and it was the way she wanted it to be. She lived for the war and pushed everything else away. But if she wanted to function, she needed a clear mind and so she knew what she had to do. A fleeting thought touched Eragon, but she put it aside. He would understand.

And so, she receded into her mind and started the painful process of re-assembling all the splinters, gathering them and pushing them far, far away, until it was just as it had been for the longest time, after Gil'ead, after Fäolin's death: the blank emotionless state, that offered no happiness, but allowed her to keep going.

Hours passed, but no sun rose to break the night. No bird sang to cheer her up, no voice sounded to disturb her meditation. People were born and died, battles won and lost; memories drifting past her eyes in an endless stream, scenes of a century, her century.

And finally, Arya opened her eyes and stared at the ruins of Edur Ithindra, broken fragments of something that once had been beautiful, and was looking at her own life. She shivered and hugged herself. It was cold. And at long last, exhaustion overcame her.

* * *

**A/N:**

Well, and so the second story arc has started. Let's see if we can repeat the 200 reviews there?

:P

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Responses:

_**?**_: First of all, thanks for reviewing.

Now, trying to answer your points ... well. From my, the author's, perspective - the story is really supposed to work that way. So if you say that Eragon could have easily used a ward, or done whatever, then all that will mean is that I bring up counters why he couldn't :P

For example, they did have wards (I'm fairly certain I mentioned that, too). However, the arrow that hit Arya was like the arrow at Durza's ambush, imbued with Dark Magic to pierce the wards. On the flip side, against Murtagh, no ward would have saved Eragon, because Murtagh is just that much more powerful, magic-wise; and in the centre of Helgrind, magic didn't work at all. And in the end, they were simply exhausted (They actually shared Eragon's reserves, if you recall).

So I'm fairly sure that Eragon did all he could do - or well, I say that he did all he could do; only, the circumstances really worked against them (which was Galbatorix's doing).

Was that the only reason you found Eragon childish (considering especially that behaving childishly has not all that much to do with raising or not raising wards)? Or was there something he did or said, in particular, that you didn't like? I thought I made him more mature, personally. But feel free to point out instances where you think he's childish. I'll have a look.

As for Katrina's eyes, they are indeed said to be brown, so there was nothing I changed. I made up Murtagh's eye colour (blue), since their colour is never stated.

Finally, this isn't the actual Brisingr - I started writing the story before that book came out; and I always knew I would be writing an AU of sorts. Part of that is that I made the Ra'zac stronger, so what you mentioned was, indeed, the point: I disliked how easily they defeated the Ra'zac in Brisingr, so that's how it doesn't work in my story; and thus two elves, or an elf and a rider without his dragon , are hard-pressed to defeat them, especially considering that the beasts have the advantage of knowing their surroundings.

So that was intentional.

And regarding predictability … being unpredictable can be fun, but at one point, predictability means nothing more than that the chapter was constructed correctly. Throwing in random shit, just to catch the readers off guard, isn't a sign of good writing. IMO.

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_**Reviewer**_: Ah, thanks! If it evokes emotions while reading, then I did a few things right. That's one of the nicest compliments.

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**_Reading for Pleasure_**: Thanks to you as well - people enjoying what I write always makes me happy.

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**_(no Name)_**: Thanks for the review. First of all, I apologise again for the state of the chapter - as I mentioned above, it had scene breaks, but killed them. I re-added them, so it should be a lot less confusing now (I hope). As far as character development goes, I've indeed focused on Arya and Eragon, simply because they are the main characters, but Murtagh will get some attention (I laid the groundwork for the ideas I have in that cave scene), as will Nasuada.

And as far as serial killer novels go, I do have a liking for noir stories, but I'm surprised that someone could deduce that from this story. Either you're just that good, or I'm more obvious than I thought :P

Oh well. As long as this story works, I suppose :D

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_**Anonymous**_: Thanks! Orrin will come up again, he isn`t finished yet ;)


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